One of my biggest fans has used her favourite characters from A Circle of Lost Sisters in a project for English class. I particularly like Holly’s award. I have paired up her project work here with quotations from the novel. My first bit of fan work!
‘Nothing, it was just a silly—’. Ingrid looked at her hand. She gasped and swore.
When it first happened, when she had been certain hospital was imminent, there had been nothing to see. Now, cradled in Leighton’s palm, Rowan Syng’s nail marks had changed. They screamed out from her clammy skin: crimson, violent and swollen, the original scrapes swallowed by rising tides of shining pink like drowned salmon.
‘Oh!’ Ingrid mumbled, horrified at the angry welts. As she and Leighton looked on, a trickle of yellow pus oozed from the middle graze. She was going to be sick. She was going to pass out and vomit all over the lovely Leighton Jacobs.
Holly sat up and shoved Rowan so hard she fell against the neighbouring stone with a satisfying thud. ‘Sod off nosy cow!’ Holly walked away to the far side of the circle. But Rowan recovered quickly, hopped back on her feet and grabbed Holly’s upper arm as she passed. Damned hard arsed werewolf!
‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t love revenge,’ Rowan hissed.
‘Freya gave you a chance to get back at me.’ Holly wrenched her arm from Rowan’s grasp and tried again to move away.
‘I don’t want to get back at you,’ Rowan pursued. ‘Look what I did to Ingrid. I don’t have the right to hold it against you. I hold it against him.’
‘That what you’re looking for, Goth Girl? You want to hit out at someone so bad you’re off to hunt down a werewolf bogey man—you’re so bloody mental!’
‘Mother.’ Rowan inhaled. Faded Eeyore curtains, chosen when Rowan was a little girl, quivered around the open window as the weregirls anticipated the arrival of another relic from Rowan’s childhood.
‘Mother?’ The sharp stench of death wafted in with the winter air. No face appeared. No objects shaped themselves into an image. No voice broke the heavy silence.
‘Mother!’ Rowan struggled against the terrified embraces of her pack sisters. One bony arm wriggled free. Rowan pushed it into Freya’s ribs weakening the werewolf body knot.
Rowan scrambled to the window. Her trembling fingers clutched the frame and she howled, heartfelt and wolfish. From outside her bedroom something answered.
From just below the surface of Heather Lane, a male wolf howled so fiercely it shook the ground. Freya and Holly collapsed as waves of moonlight ripped through them, pulled at them with tidal force, turned them inside out. Changed them into monsters.
The grey and ginger flecked wolf that was Finn leapt over what was left of the hedge to stand beside the russet-furred Holly and the gold-coated Freya. The trio roared a challenge at the gaping hole in the earth. Behind them, from the distant River Munn, three more wolves howled a response.
Six luminescent eyes flashed in the darkness. Three creatures emerged from the bank of fog. They were not wolves. They were wolfhounds. Taller even than Freya’s wolf form and very lean with long, finely muscled legs. Layers of pure white fur covered their bodies in ruffled waves, except for their ears which were red. Deeply red. So red even the wolves could see it…
Red! Through her fear and panic Tyra could not help a vibration of pleasure in her chest. She had not seen red in so long. Her subtle whine in the silence suddenly made her the focus of attention. Three sharp snouts turned to her, three muzzles pulled back from sharply pointed teeth and three moon-white bodies crouched to spring.
Fantastic work, Mahala! So glad you love my weregirls too. Keep howling on.