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The Slytherin Prince
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“Doctor Reyes!” Nichole immediately recognized the voice and the sing-song tone her name was called. Detective Larieka Kennedy strolled into her lab office as if she owned the place. When Nikki didn’t even own the place, she shared it with three other people in the fellowship program.
One of those people, actually, was also present. He was a slip of a man. Sean Lewis had to be older than Nikki, but he looked all of fifteen. Taller than her, of course, most people were, he was about the same height as Kennedy and looked to be about average weight. Not much muscle. That combined with his thick rectangle hipster glasses he constantly pushed up the bridge of his nose, his look was qualified the ‘intellectual’ stereotype. Nichole hadn’t talked to him much yet. She hadn’t been here long, after all.
Apparently she didn’t have to worry about her friend coming to visit making a bad impression because the second he turned his head up in their direction, his brows climbed up, completely clearing the frames of his glasses. His eyes, the clean pastel blue of an ‘it’s a boy!’ announcement, sparkled. Grin slowly growing on his face. It was charming, boyishly, and Larieka immediately laughed.
“Don’t even give me a line, kid, out of your league.” His grin didn’t even fade and Nikki knew she needed to round this up, quickly.
“What can I do for you Detective Kennedy?” She impressed the importance of her title, hopefully reminding all involved that this wasn’t a place for social engagement.
“Come to lunch, for one.” Kennedy apparently had found an audience, she winked, and Nichole wanted to roll her eyes.
“Go ahead, it’s almost break anyways. You do eat, right?” He hadn’t seen her eat? How was that possible? He had just brought in lunch for everyone yesterday. That Italian place that used too much oregano. When she turned a skeptical glance at him she realized he was still grinning, a little crooked. Making a joke she didn’t get, most likely. Larieka apparently had no need to ply her with jokes, she just used brute force. Pulling her by the arm out of her seat in a very distinctive cop-like manner.
“Whatever this is can wait.” The file folder of X-Rays in her hands was plucked out of her grip and deposited neatly on her desk. Just before Nikki skittered out the door, dragged by Kennedy, the spectacled Lewis patted her on the back. Strangely fond.
“Have fun, Reyes! Kennedy, a pleasure!”
~
“So, he’s cute. The Fellow squint.” Nichole did roll her eyes this time. Trying not to fidget in the passenger seat of the ‘unmarked’ black Dodge Charger that Kennedy was using this week.
“Can we not?”
“He looks young..”
“He looks twelve.” Nikki snapped back, already beyond tired of this conversation. Larieka was as bad as her mama.
“More like- late teens.”
“Not legal.”
“Nah, definitely jailbait.” The detective laughed, already pulling out into traffic onto Bob Hope.
“You’re the one who said he was cute.”
“I’m trying to inspire you..”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Of course you don’t.” Kennedy sighed, heavily dramatic. Then switched gears, literally and metaphorically.
“So, wha’d you need to talk about?” Nichole snapped her head around, finally giving her attention to the conversation. That oh-so-familiar light in her eyes that proved she’d just been triggered with some brilliant thought. Kennedy always enjoyed that look. Part inspiration, part determination, all genius.
“I think I have a lead on the golf course case.”
“What?!” Larieka almost slipped the clutch. Rapidly flipping her eyes over to her friend and to the road.
“Yeah, I think it’s an animal. Big.” She would wait to tell her the rest, when they were safely parked somewhere.
The detective gave a nod and a purse of her lips that twisted the edges just a bit. Fair enough, they were already considering that anyway. Larieka Kennedy was about the only real friend Nichole Reyes had ever had that wasn’t a member of her family. Definitely one that’s lasted longer than any others. They were going on about five years, and had kept in touch dutifully. Even when their schedules were packed with classes, tests, papers, and work shifts, they somehow touched base at least weekly.
The detective was the product of the melting pot at its finest. Gorgeous. Her mother had been Cuban-American and her father was African-American. She called herself Afro-latina, and she didn’t give a damn who didn’t like it. Tall, five-foot-nine, a perfectly bronze, dark beige skin tone that made her look professionally sun kissed all the time. Slender and naturally athletic, she was exactly what Nichole had wanted to be while she was awkwardly struggling through middle and high school. Kennedy said her mother had moved out west when she was a kid, and she didn’t hear from her much. She wrote it off, but every now and then Nikki could catch the sadness of it in her eyes. The Reyes’ family had adopted Larieka as their own the first moment Nichole brought her home, her Mama feeding whatever void she could with good food and tight hugs and pressed cheeks. Sucking it up like a starved flower, the woman flourished under their care. That combined with the tough independent streak her father, a highway patrol officer, now retired, had engendered into her. She was a dangerous woman.
They pulled into a little place not far from the Department, El Cortijo Café, a place Kennedy was fairly familiar with, she’d been settled in Miami for quite a while.
The moment the emergency break was yanked up, Larieka turned on her friend, expectant. Looked like they weren’t eating until Nichole filled her in on the details. She didn’t tell first, she showed first, popping off her seatbelt and twisting so she could pull up the lightweight shirt she wore today. The slash was clearly visible, shining with the hardened glue, surrounded in a red and purplish bruise.
“What the hell? Nikki!” The woman lurched forward, as if she could do something, but stopped short of actually touching.
“It’s fine. This animal came out of nowhere on my porch last night. Fin heard it, so I went out with the bat. But it was huge ‘Rika. It had to be the same thing that got ahold of that guy. The cuts are the same!”
Larieka stared, slack jawed, praying that her friend didn’t actually seem.. eager about this. “No, Nikki, no freakin way. No! You are not wildin’ out over this!”
“I’m not! –I don’t even know what that means!” Nichole huffed, tugging her shirt back into place. “I’m not doing anything! I just wanted to see if you would loan me a gun, maybe give me a lesson? Just in case!” She added when Larieka’s eyes grew even wider with those words.
Pulling back, tucking in her chin, she observed her with an upwards glance that screamed ‘skeptical’. A couple beats passed before she finally settled on a smile, relaxing all at once.
“Alright. If that’s all it is. Just defense, no going crazy, truth hunting, ‘cause I know you!” Dark brows rose, questioning, until Nichole shook her head. She kept her mouth shut though, because she couldn’t outright lie to her friend. She just couldn’t.
“Do you want me to come bunk-up with you a couple nights?” Nichole immediately recognized that flash of flame in her friends dark walnut eyes. A spark that would erupt into a conflagration at the first sign of threat. Some frat guy had unhooked a girls bra at a party once, completely unwanted and unwarranted. Just because she was standing in front of him. Kennedy had crossed the distance with almost inhuman speed, leaping a couch in the process, and landed a perfectly formed right jab square into his nose. Afterwards she ‘escorted’ him out. Nikki had grown up with three brothers and countless cousins and had never seen anything so protective or badass in her life.
“No, that’s alright, I’ll just stay in tonight.” Which, was.. technically true. But she still felt the leaden weight of guilt settle in her gut, she had never lied to Kennedy, and should not be thinking of her new neighbor. She wasn’t going to bring him up. He didn’t want to be a part of this narrative, and she couldn’t give away too many details, Kennedy might drive her straight to Jackson Behavioral and have her checked into a padded room.
They both moved to exit the car at nearly the same time, making their way towards the small rectangular building of orange painted concrete stucco. Blue awnings and dark green potted ferns grew from one side almost organically. One of the awnings proudly proclaiming the little breakfast/lunch spot’s name in white letters.
Nichole ordered something she could get served in paper, since the styrofoam take-out containers were so bad for the environment, and Larieka ended up ordering the same with a charmed tilt to her lips, appeasing her friend.
They ate outside, the inside didn’t have seating, on one of the iron patio tables and matching chairs. Chatting while they ate. As usual, Larieka was completely on point on exactly where to find the best food in a four block radius. Police officer secrets.
“So, what doya think it was?” She nodded at Nikki’s side, taking a way too big bite of her fish, Nichole tilted her head and just blinked slow for a moment. It was so similar to the way she’d watched Will take his bites the night before.
“I don’t know.. It was.. dark. But it was really big. I thought it was a bear, maybe. But bears aren’t so normally that aggressive are they?”
“Could have been rabid. Didn’t bite you did it?”
“Rabies can actually be transferred through scratches and bites. Scratches just aren’t as common because they would have to contain saliva to infect.”
“Good to know.” Larieka agreed and nodded, like she normally did when her best friend spouted facts she didn’t ask for. “But that means you should get it checked out, right?”
“Yeah, I can do a quick blood sample spin at the lab.”
“Gonna get the cute one to help you?” Larieka shot back, complete with a waggle of her eyebrows.
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Name: Larieka Kennedy
Age: 28
Birthday: April 5th
Sign: Aries
Hair: Dark brown with caramel highlights. Wild and curly or straight.
Eyes: Dark Brown
Height: 5’9”
Weight: 122 lbs.
Marks: Various tattoos. A sea turtle on her right thigh, ocean waves on her left shoulder. Right shoulder and upper arm a compass and map piece.
Birthplace: Miami, Florida
Parents: Mother-Melissa Andrade, Father-Jarrod Kennedy (Retired Highway Patrol Officer)
Education: University of Florida-Degree in Criminal Investigation.
Profession: Homicide Detective for the Miami-Dade Police Department
Location: Miami, Florida
Orientation: Straight
Fly
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“First We Take Manhattan... I'm Your Man. That sort of thing."
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Key Biscayne
Friday, 8:42 PM
Jacaranda and Cherry Blossom along with sugary-sweet honeysuckle lined the street on either side of the street. The rain had not yet begun, but the smell of it hung thick in the air. Electricity charged in the humidity, making crackling promises of lightening to come. Properties in the area were largely newer construction. Not cookie-cutter tract homes, but mostly large, sprawling structures which had called for architects and millions of dollars in added amenities. They were ultra-modern squares stacked on top of each other with wide, floor-to ceiling windows and tall, overtly elegant and subtly criminal Spanish-style villas with red roof tiles and wrought iron balconies overlooking courtyards. Where vehicles were visible outside their neatly arranged garages, they were of the higher-end, imported variety with spotless, sticker-free bumpers. Street lamps here were decorative and shaped to look like the gas lamps of an era gone by. Street signs were not signs, but heavy stone markers on corners with names and numbers hand-painted onto them. It was five minutes from the water, but far enough that wandering tourists and beach goers in bikinis would not wander through looking for parking. That was doubly so thanks to the guard posted at the mouth of the sole road in or out. The community was private, luxurious, and elegantly maintained.
It was also quiet. Weekend or not, after dark there was little in the way of action out and about. Dog-walkers retreated under encroaching weather. The plastic surgeons, record executives, and business men who made up the bulk of home ownership were either in for the night, or spending their time in second homes elsewhere. Nannies and housekeepers had retreated to their own homes for the night. There was no one around to witness the flurry of leaves, shredded paper, plastic shard, grime smeared fast food wrappers gust over asphalt and puddles. The creature snorted, huffing steaming air from its lungs while splashing through the wet on the street. While moving, its tail whipped around in slow, snaking motions, the excitement of the night still working its way out. It left oil slick rainbows in its wake and, increasingly, pieces of itself. Its maker was tired.
Behind the tall, concrete and stone wall that enclosed its courtyard with bubbling fountain and cavorting cherubs, the sprawling two story estate was something out of an early 20th century novel. Buttery cream stucco and burnt ochre tile made up the external façade of the hacienda. There were delicately manicured bushes shaped into swirling flourishes and globes. A long, curling trail of slate tiles lead through the heavy duty iron gates at the curb, and back towards the main structure. Like other homes on the exclusive block, substantial, iron sconce lights kept the double door entrance illuminated, even inviting from the outside. This, it projected, could have been the home of some great director or starlet of films begotten age. It would have been at home equally in Sunset Boulevard or Love in the Time of Cholera. Anywhere else, it would have appeared gaudy. There, it blended to the scenery. No more or less ostentatious and indulgent than its neighbors.
Inside the house, past cathedral ceiling entryway and sweeping grand stairwell, He was rising in consciousness as if from a trance. The kitchen and primary living room was really one large, expansive space with high ceilings and few walls. One entire run along the back of the house was entirely glass, providing a panoramic, unobstructed few of the sparkling pool with rock feature waterfall at one end. In keeping with the rest of the homes classic lines, the kitchen was stately with heavy wooden cabinetry and fitted sub-zero circled around massive, marble-top island. The weight was made modern and crisp with neutral color scheme which would have been a realtor’s dream but showed no evident punch of décor or personality. There was no art on the walls. No pots or pans littered the stovetop. The floors were sand-colored travertine, and had been laid before the property was purchased. There was a white leather sofa facing a practically wall-sized television opposite the windows. The fireplace that his double-plush, also white leather recliner faced was on the western wall, and had been recently used but not tidied up after. Its glass door was askew, and a poker laying in front, dusted with ash.
He was nude, as he normally was at home. Stretching back in his chair as he came to with a few slow, hedonistic blinks. That had been a good one. Most of the time, when he manifested his power, he’d found that rather than attempt to pass as something human, which was still almost impossible despite all his practice and meditation, he preferred to be something hellish. Stalking the earth as a creature of nightmares suited him, as did the horrified reactions of those he dispatched. It was, actually, easier to simply will the creatures into being and allow them to wreak havoc at their own accord. Almost any collection of matter would do if he could just sit, focus and let the power flow through him. Trash was effective and in plentiful supply, but his beast that night also included a large portion of wet, sulfurous mud and a bit more than half the corpse of a possum left when a semi-truck tire carried off the rest. Whatever the recipe, he found the long past dead, used, and rotten tended to work best.
This was not an exact science. Once he was done, the beast would have enough of a functioning mind to kill and desire for more, but not be even quite as much good as a trained dog. Soulless destruction turned out to be one thing, while real, independently thinking and feeling life quote something else. If he wanted to wield his hammer with any precision, which meant taking the reins on the golem’s mind himself. With one so basic, that was easily accomplished. He thought about sliding, oil like, over the thing’s nervous system, taking ownership. Then, thought of taking residency in his mind like he was piloting a ship in the first person. He saw through its eyes and felt the gnash of its jaws as his own. Few things had ever been so freeing. He’d dig his fingers into the arms of his Lazy-Boy, eyes rolling and lips parted, breathing in the same heavy pants of the beast as it stood on a dimly lit street corner, miles away. He felt the pulse of its heart in his chest, and growled quietly at the chill wind tickling its way over the creature’s tar-colored skin.
There had been his great-aunt’s murder. The woman had never met a cruelty she hadn’t enjoyed lavishing upon her nephew after his parent’s death at three made her his only living relative. There were lashings when he was naughty and cigarette burns for when she was simply feeling the itch to cause him to cry out. She was a childless widow herself, and had inherited considerable sums of money when her late husband died prematurely. It was the boon which his additional life insurance and sale of his business brought into her life which gave him the idea of how to better secure his. His aunt was a wealthy and well-insured woman herself, and one who richly deserved whatever punishment a god like him saw fit to bestow upon her.
God was a term he didn’t use lightly. It was simply the only one which made sense when one considered the range of his abilities. It had really started around thirteen, when he found that at a peak of rage and emotion, locked and confined in his bedroom after a brutal episode his aunt told him was all about how he forgot the milk carton on the counter, leaving it to rot and wasting her money. A lack of respect, she’d said, was displayed in the careless way he treated her hard earned things. His stare had burned with hatred for her, disgust at the hypocrisy, while she beat him. Pacing and wailing in his room then, he sent a shelf full of books hurling off their perches, slamming and clattering to the opposite wall without ever raising a finger. He’d been startled then. He was afraid she’d hear, and storm in to see the mess, and so he scrambled to clean it up before considering just what he’d done. It was weeks later before he was able to edge a glass across the table with his mind without tipping it over and spilling a drop. Months more before he was levitating them across the room with ease.
He’d kept that power secret, kept it safe, for years while he stowed strength. Long after he had to, he kept taking the abuse. Every cruelty was a log on the fire in his belly. In time, he came to realize he’d grown to… Well, not like it. Surely. He wasn’t sick. Rely on it would be more accurate. Yes. He needed the motivation to drive him to amassing his strength, anyway. She couldn’t tear him down with words or fists or even the belt. He was destined for something greater; he was sure of it more and more each day. Why else?
Sighing, pushing up to stand, he stretched his arms over his head and yawned. Puppeteering took a lot out of him. Though the experience of tearing out his neighbors entrails with his claws had been a curative, the after effects were that he felt sapped. Walking barefoot across the large, off-set tiles towards the kitchen, he was already planning the road to caloric recovery. Double sundae, fudge-sauce, whip cream from the can, extra-extra cherries. That would do it. One of the benefits of his diligent practice, aside from being able to create nightmare golems out of garbage and dirt, was that it no longer seemed to matter where his energy came from so long as he kept shoveling in the fuel. In the moment, he felt as though he needed a swimming pool’s worth of it.
Despite his diet, he looked as though he could have been a god on earth. Several inches past six foot, lithe and blonde with attractive emerald green eyes, he was muscled like a swimmer. His jawline was clean shaven with a little cleft in his chin. His skin was smooth, largely hairless and pleasantly golden as if he got only just the right amount of sun and never too much. He could have been a surfer, or boy next door, and would have looked at home flirting boyishly in a Hallmark movie-of-the-week. Handsome, non-threatening despite his height. He looked like the sort to help old ladies cross the road, which was an idea that made him chortle madly to himself as he recalled what the last old lady he’d known looked like when he pushed her beneath the surface of the water in her tub. She’d been drinking and taking pills by the handful according to the coroner, and he’d been so obviously and woefully bereaved at her loss.
He hefted the five-gallon plastic tub of Neapolitan from the icebox and set it on the center of the island with a heavy thud before turning again to pull a bowl out that would have been better suited for sharing popcorn or mixing a cake. The same large, silver serving spoon that he used to dig around and pull clots of frozen cream free from the tub and into his bowl was used to eat after dumping piles of toppings over the entire thing, and he did so unreservedly. Rules meant nothing to him now, and spitting in the proverbial face of them was pleasing no matter how large or small the subversion. Ice cream ran in sticky rivulets down his chin. Drips struck on his chest and left spots on the floor for the cleaning woman to handle another day. He handled the oversized spoon like a shovel, bringing up too-large mouthfuls and getting his hand coated in chocolate and cream in the process. He didn’t care about any of it. This was his world to do as he liked, and he would show it.
The neighbor who had served as his most recent victim just that night lived in a house eight doors down. They’d never met before, but while pulling his Caribbean Blue Maserati GranTurismo around the block on his way home earlier, he and his mongrel dog with obnoxious ”I’m a Rescue!” slogan on its bandana nearly stepped right out into the road in front of him. The fucker then had the nerve to curse at him. ”Slow down! Kid’s play here!” Did they, asshole? An hour later he stepped into the house eight doors away’s yard in his alter-ego and cornered him against the fence. He detached his neighbor’s head from his shoulders after first emptying out his torso. The dog looked on and whined in distress from his house. Normally, he would prefer not to do his hunting so close to home, but that guy really had it coming yelling at him. Being a deity in his own mind, he would not be challenged by mere mortals in such a way.
He’d considered the possibility that he was psychotic. He did take pleasure in killing, after all. When his last attempt in the Miami Gardens neighborhood a few miles away resulted in a stalemate – park security had come rolling up just as he was getting started, and floodlights were being flipped. He had to scatter or else be prepared to expose the whole game in that instant. He’d been having fun being a mystery so far, and didn’t want to spoil it by showing his cards just yet, but it left him with an unsatisfied taste for blood he could not shake. Did that really make him mad? He didn’t imagine so. Gods were ineffable and vengeful. Even if he was only just coming fully into his own as one, it made sense that he’d yearn for the spoils of war and victory. A few innocent victims were small sacrifice, and the very least he deserved.
The man in Coral Gables – that was something else. With the heightened sense of smell being in the beast afforded him, he knew that the guy wasn’t exactly human. But what wasn’t human? Other than himself, of course. The scent of him had plagued him. Deep in the creature’s central nervous system was an ingrained aversion to whatever it was he was picking up. Then the fucker *charged* him, broke his jaw – a pain he’d felt from across town and howled equally from in both bodies. Rather than expend energy and worry about gathering replacement matter for that he’d loss in the battle, he’d pulled his consciousness out and let the creature fall apart all on its own.
The woman had smelled intriguing too. He hadn’t needed to be inside one of the monsters he created to watch her working at the morgue. Instead, he’d been hanging, dormant in the body of his victim when they’d carried him onto a stretcher. He wanted to see what the police were saying by then. It was not because he was afraid, he reminded himself to be clear. He just wanted to check on the progress of the game. How long could he rain chaos and have his laughs before they started to close in and forced his hand? By then, he hoped to be almost invincible. Already, he’d been practicing creating more than one of the things at once, and varying their features and strengths. With enough time, he’d be able to call up an army with the wave of his hand. He smiled, slurping up and swallowing a sugary red cherry, stem and all.
She had seemed like easy pickings. Her death would alarm the police, raising all sorts of unanswerable questions and sounding the alarm, of course, but he looked forward to tasting her and letting that scent roll around on his tongue before sliding down his gullet. He would have, if he hadn’t been interrupted. When the man from next door struck him like a freight train, he’d had to reassess everything. He’d always believed he was the only one, but something in his lizard brain said that this one was more than met the eye. He sensed innately that they were enemies of the highest order, and that definitely-not-human man would take destruction as seriously as he. Before Will had started to hammer him with fists, the puppeteer inside the creature had half expected him to drop his jaw and extend it into an animal-like muzzle, then clamp it around his throat. The image stuck in his mind and nagged. Something.
He would have to go back. The Gardens, his neighbor, those had been temporary distractions while he licked his wounds and nursed his ego. His curiosity was too great, for one. For another, if there was another thing like him out there, he had to know exactly what he was up against. If he could, catch it by surprise and put an end to his existence before it could turn tables and do the same. As a bonus, he’d get her for his trouble. That idea elicited a mad, air-hissing cackle while he ate. Maybe he’d only injure the other guy. Remove his arms and legs and make him watch while his eyelids were held open by muscle constriction and shock. That was an idea. It improved his mood almost immediately to consider. Tonight, if he could. Yes. That would make it his bloodiest 24 hour period yet, which was itself an exciting milestone to surpass. After ice cream. And a shower. He’d be back up and running, eager.
What was he really worried about, anyway? Whatever the other guy was, he was a god. He might break a jaw, but he could simply make another. From his keep, there was no one who could reach him to cause actual harm His neighbors, he was confident, would not know his name. When the police inevitably came sniffing around after his neighbor’s body was discovered, he’d affect the same grief-stricken confusion they’d see in everyone else. Keeping his cover was easy; he looked the part. When he was ready and not one moment before he’d show the world exactly what he was. They’d fight over kissing the ground he walked on.
Outside, the beast which had been serving as a shell for his mind was moving more slowly, stumbling and unwell. He could have lived for hours more after being used as a avatar, but without his masters will to make it so, things began to crumble quickly. He was losing toes while approaching the curb and fell, finally, in a heap of shapeless rubble and waste just after hitting the grass. What was left of him looked as though someone tipped over the bin rather than collecting it to the requisite garbage truck. Wind sent pieces of it tumbling across lawns across the way and a few over from his upper-class suburban lair. The man who thought of himself as a god tossed his then-empty bowl into the wide, farmer’s basin sink and left it. He groaned, feeling fuller and better than he had since the run in the other night, and with new resolve. Still a little lazily while he let muscle and gray matter recover with the new burst of calories, he started towards the master bedroom upstairs, and the shower. Tonight, he thought.
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Name: Nichole Sofía Reyes
Age: 30
Birthday: January 31st
Astrological Sign: Aquarius
Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Brown
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 184lbs.
Distinguishing Marks: No tattoos. Ears pierced. No other piercings. Light scar on abdomen from appendix surgery as a pre-teen. Shiny burn scar on wrist from a cooking accident. No birthmarks. Light freckles on face and shoulders.
Birthplace: Fellsmere, Florida
Parents: Juan Reyes [Cuban-American] and Ana Sofía Reyes (Suárez) [Cuban national]
Education: High School Graduate with Honors. University of Florida for a BofS, Medical School and a Residency. Granted a Fellowship at the The Miami-Dade County Medical Examiner Department.
Former Profession: Cooking/waitressing in her family’s Cuban restaurant in Fellsmere, Florida.
Current Profession: Medical Examiner/Neuropathologist Fellow
Location: Miami, FL
Orientation: Straight
“Oh, it's delightful to have ambitions. I'm so glad I have such a lot. And there never seems to be any end to them-- that's the best of it. Just as soon as you attain to one ambition you see another one glittering higher up still. It does make life so interesting.”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
Nichole or ‘Nikki’ Reyes was born in Fellsmere, Florida. Most there refered to it as “Cuba-town” since 70% of the population were Hispanic or Latino and the majority of those from some Cuban roots. With a mile long list of restaurants with Cuban fare, her parents owned what most considered the best. With what Nichole herself considered the best Ropa Vieja in the known world. Her father was born in Florida, so an American citizen and her mother met him on her first trip to the States in her late teens, visiting family. It was a typical whirlwind romance and Nichole is the youngest of four children as proof that it was lasting love.
Always an overachiever, she decided from a young age she wanted to be in the medical field. While which specialty she would eventually choose changed several times over the years. The brutal murder of a dear friend while she was in high school quickly turned her down the path of Forensics. Her acceptance letter into the University of Florida’s pre-med program prompted a block party with enough pork to feed the country.
With the endless papers, tests, and a dissertation that she thought on a daily basis would literally kill her, all behind her, she’s finally received a Medical Degree and Completed a Residency program. Only one step away from attaining a career she’s worked for half her life. A Fellowship program through the Miami-Dade County Medical Examiner Department has accepted her application and she’s moved 150 miles from her hometown to Florida’s Metropolitan “Magic City”
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Name: William (“Will”) James Abbott
Age:38
Birthday: April 22
Sign: Taurus
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 228 lbs
Distinguishing Marks: Several tattoos in black ink chest, abdomen and arms; scar on right brow.
Birthplace: Aylesbury Estate - Southwark, South East London
Species: Garou
Tribe: Silver Fang
Parents: James Lawton Abbott (English) - kinfolk; Catherine Anne Abbott (nee Clarke; Irish)
Education: High School dropout; GCSE Certificate.
Former Occupation: RAF Wing Commander (OF-4, Wg Cdr)
Current Occupation: Day job as a carpenter; pursuing a career in art most evenings
Location: Miami, FL
Orientation: Straight
Most people are lucky to have a single go of things. Will was gifted with two lives.
His first began in a South London government run estate which put projects in the States to utter shame with the depths of its hopeless poverty. It wasn't until he was thirteen going on fourteen that the change first came over him. The confusion melted easily and naturally as the power rushed in to fill the void. He grew not into a monster separate from himself, but one that was more himself.
The old man drank and mum enabled, hiding the bruises and making excuses. The same genes that skipped his father over and were the chief source of resentment in the elder Abbott's life presented boldly in Will. Paired with a predilection for books and drawings, his very presence was a strain on what little harmony there was to be found in the cramped government housing.
After a few particularly nasty rows at a stretch, Will got the hint. He dropped out of High School, completed his equivalent GCSE, and joined the military directly. Fulfilling boyhood dreams, he routed into the RAF and took to flying like a bird. Iraq and Afghanistan were next; for a while, risking his neck in the third world felt oddly homey.
It was just over a decade in that he downed his first plane. His wingman fell in the firestorm that followed and he quite nearly lost an eye. His discharge was honorable and came with medals and the expected fanfare – then it was over. Will felt like everything he had been died with him in the desert that day. He was haunted forever with nightmares of scorching sand, gunfire, and serpentine hissing.
It was barely a six months after returning to London that he realized he no longer belonged there. For a while, he made a point of visiting his mother on Sundays, but her death on a Friday night while he was three sheets to the wind at an underground basement pub put a stop to that. He saw the old man at her funeral and they nearly came to blows. There was nowhere in London where he could escape and run on all fours to air out his frustrations. It was time to figure out where to go next.
Crossing the pond was next. The US may have been a modern Babylon, but as far as Will was concerned its worst neighborhoods felt like the lap of luxury. Miami was where he settled and, soon enough, found a hobbyist talent in handy-work was more than enough to keep him afloat. It was a fresh start. A chance to begin again around people and in a place that held no history for him.
Art was always in his heart, but not something he ever dreamed of making a career of. It was a client who first told him his work was worth seeing – an idea that never occurred to him. Someone other than him wanted to see what he made? His new life now had some color to it. Something tangible to pursue and love and have passion for, not just “get by” was all new and it was thrilling beyond measure.
Now, more than five years in, his "new" life is now simply life. He works hard and takes pride in his day job. Then he comes home to fall into his art with a manic energy. There's still the PTSD and occasional nightmare, but his old self feels like a distant memory; as if his dreams are films played back to him of someone else's life.
He wants to keep his low profile. Maybe get paid to paint from time to time. And get to know the bottom of a bottle on his own, which the often off-kilter, often impersonal East coast city provided plenty of places to do. There was also the wide open space of a national park bordering the Western side of the county to run in, and no one at all who really knew him. For a wolf who preferred his solitude, it was perfect.
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