RAFES: Her Fated Wolf: 50 Loving States Maryland Read online

  Rafes: Her Fated Wolf

  50 Loving States, Maryland

  Theodora Taylor

  Contents

  Untitled

  Part I

  1. Wilma

  2. Myrna

  3. Rafes

  4. Rafes

  5. Myrna

  6. Rafes

  7. Colby

  Part II

  8. Wilma

  9. Rafes

  10. Rafes

  11. Myrna

  12. Damianos

  Part III

  13. Wilma

  14. Myrna

  15. Rafes

  16. Myrna

  17. Myrna

  18. Myrna

  19. Myrna

  20. Rafes

  21. Knud

  22. Damianos

  Part IV

  23. Wilma

  24. Rafes

  25. Rafes

  26. Myrna

  27. Myrna

  28. Myrna

  29. Myrna

  30. Myrna

  31. Myrna

  32. Rafes

  33. Rafes

  34. Max

  35. Damianos

  Part V

  36. Wilma

  37. Rafes

  38. Myrna

  39. Wilma

  40. Wilma

  Epilogue

  HER DRAGON EVERLASTING PREVIEW

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by Theodora Taylor

  About the Author

  Untitled

  RAFES: HER FATED WOLF

  Part One

  Big mistake...Possibly the biggest one she’d ever made

  One

  Wilma

  The late 80s, Detroit

  There was nothing…read her lips...nothing in the world Wilma Greenwolf regretted more than her decision to eat a huge lunch before coming here to try out for All-American Wrestling.

  Yeah, it had made sense at the time. It was a full moon night, and she’d had no idea how long the tryouts line for All-American wrestling would be. Possibly a little long, but also maybe really short. Professional wrestling used to be huge in Detroit back in the 50s and the 60s, but times had changed for real. Now, the city had gone from mostly white folks driving Cadillacs to mostly black folks driving whatever they could afford. And most of Detroit’s other pro wrestling promotions, like Big Time and All-Star Championship Wrestling, had shut down.

  So when Wilma decided on that big ass lunch, for all she had known, she’d be the only female in all of Detroit who’d be trying out for one of Detroit’s few remaining wrestling promotions today. Truth be told, she could still barely believe she’d decided to try out after seeing that neon yellow flyer stapled to a power pole the last time she was in Detroit proper getting her perm touched up.

  But she was determined to do this. Ever since she’d turned twenty a few months ago, she’d been getting hit with the same thought—life as she knew it was about to be over now that she’d reached heat age. And if she wanted to take any chances, make any of her own choices, she had to do it now, because once her father found a legitimate prince to take his otherwise useless daughter off his hands, there wouldn’t be a later when it came to deciding what was next for her own life.

  However, the tryouts were taking place at a community rec center in Lincoln Heights, some random part of south Detroit that Wilma had never been to before. And no matter how fired up she was to live her life while the living was good, she couldn’t just ignore the fact that the one chance to make her secret dream come true was scheduled on the same day as this month’s full moon. After a whole lot of squinting at a map she’d bought at Triple A, and a few weird phone calls to Michigan’s Park and Recs Services, she’d managed to identify a recently closed summer camp in Dearborn just a few miles away from the rec center. She’d be able to shift there if she didn’t have time to drive all the way back to her pack’s kingdom house in Hidden Hills before moonrise.

  But shifting was no joke. Wilma often woke up starving the morning after even when she'd eaten a huge dinner. She didn’t want to be stuck in Dearborn on a totally empty stomach. So on the drive south, she’d decided to make an hour detour into downtown Detroit to scarf down five chili dogs—from Lafayette Coney Island of course. American Coney could suck a dick. Wilma was a Lafayette gangsta FO LIFE!

  Big mistake, though. Possibly the biggest one she’d ever made.

  Wilma had been feeling like she might barf ever since pulling up to the Lincoln Heights Community Center. And seeing that the line for tryouts already wrapped all the way around the sprawling beige brick building didn't help her nerves either. Shit, shit, shit, she’d cursed. Because apparently, she wasn’t the only 70s kid whose eyes had lit up when All-American announced they wanted girl wrestlers.

  It had taken nearly four hours to reach the front of the line, which might not have felt so bad if she was like any of the other girls in line: nimble gymnasts, tall blonde and light-skinned models, or hulking dark ethnic girls waiting for their chance to try out.

  Her being here felt all kinds of stupid now.

  Standing five foot nine in wrestling boots with ebony skin, she wasn’t tall, skinny or light-skinned enough to model anything in a Spiegel catalog. But she also wasn’t short enough to compete in any gymnastics competitions, or huge enough to convincingly play a villain, like Matilda the Hun from the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling--the new show that just started airing on Channel 50.

  If she was real with herself, she only had two true strengths when it came to pro wrestling. The first thing was her over-the-top passion for the sport. She and her older brothers, Wilford and Wilton, had continued watching the Big Time Wrestling matches on Channel 7, no matter how far they pushed airings into the wee hours of the morning, all the way up until the promotion shut down. And even after Wilton and Wilford had started spending their weekend nights with the other males in their pack, Wilma had continued memorizing wrestler stats and fervently following every feud.

  When her father had gotten them all their own TVs and VCRs two years ago, she’d used hers to tape the local All-American and the national WWF fights. She’d even started writing down all the moves from her favorite matches. Up until Wilt recently announced his engagement to Janelle, the daughter of another black wolf motorcycle gang, at least once a month she and her brothers would choreograph complete replications of the matches for her father’s crew during his weekend-long parties.

  Of course, since Wilma was being saved for marriage to a proper prince from a legitimate state pack, she’d never been allowed to participate in those fights. She’d been more of a secretary/coach, breaking all the moves down and teaching them to her brothers for the big show.

  But still, Wilma doubted any other girl in this line loved and lived wrestling nearly as hard as she did. That was her first biggest strength.

  And her second biggest strength was…well, strength. No other girl in this line loved wrestling as much as she did and no other girl in this line was nearly as strong as she was. However, this was also her weakness. She was the strongest girl here because she happened to be the only unheated female werewolf in the entire Metro Detroit stupid enough to try out for a pro wrestling promotion on a full moon night.

  She could feel her wolf, lurking right below her skin’s surface, which made her even more nervous than the line full of human girls who looked nothing like her. And now she stood just three girls away from the door of the auditorium where the auditions were taking place. With both her wolf and her nerves working her, she wouldn’t be surprised if that big lunch came rushing right on out of her stomach any minute now.

  A heavily accented, “NEXT!” thundered out of the auditorium for the umpteenth time that day. The energy and hopes of Wilma and the rest of the girls waiting were flagging, but apparently not for the hollering voice of whoever was calling for each next tryout.

  As a statuesque light-skinned black girl who looked like she could be Vanessa William's cousin sashayed into the auditorium, Wilma checked her Casio G-Shock. Technically it wasn’t hers. But she doubted Wilt would miss it since their father upgraded him to a Rolex Oyster Perpetual Day-Date after he made his big engagement announcement to the girl his father had specifically picked out for him.

  4:30.

  Way too close for comfort this late into fall. The community center’s brick and plaster hallway didn’t let in much light, but Wilma could feel the sun setting. Her wolf vibrated inside of her in anticipation of being let out with the rise of the full moon. She should go. Now. Get to that abandoned campsite in Dearborn. But she was only two girls away from her one shot at doing something exciting with her life before her father married her off.

  At the thought of her incoming imprisonment by marriage, her stomach churned for reasons that had nothing to do with the chili dog. But she pushed her father out of her mind. Leroy Greenwolf always got his way in the end or ended whoever was getting in his way. There was nothing she could do about that. Just focus on today, she reminded herself, as her wolf tingled along her spine.

  “I heard this was all just a big publicity stunt because the new owner’s trying to drum up local interest in wrestling again,” a nimble blonde gymnast standing in line in front of Wilma, said authoritatively to her equally nimble brunette friend. “I mean look how many freaks are crawling out the woodworks.”

  On the word “freaks,” the blonde threw a pointed look over her shoulder at Wilma. As nervous as she was, the insult felt like a sucker punch, straight to the gut. Hot outrage flared through her, and Wilma's wolf cranked its neck at the blonde. She was a Greenwolf after all. The Princess of the baddest damn pack in all of North America. And the pack’s alpha hadn’t raised his three children to abide disrespect. Wilma could just hear Leroy Greenwolf’s voice inside her head, commanding her to put a silver bullet in this little bitch for daring to insult her.

  She curled her fists at her sides….

  But no, getting in a fight right before her tryout wouldn’t make a good impression. Plus, she’d ordered a suspender leotard and wrestling boots special from the Sears' catalog for this tryout. Not to mention the hours she’d spent in the hair shop, getting her hair cut into an asymmetrical style, just like the one Pepa wore in the video for “Push It.”

  She uncurled her fists and forced herself to stay in line and not punch the petite blonde in her over made up face.

  “NEXT!”

  The heavily accented command blasted through the air, distracting the catty blonde out of her stare off with the black wolf girl who could have quite easily ripped her to pieces.

  With the flip of a switch, the blonde plastered on a shiny smile and placed a hand on her hip as she, like the girl before her, sashayed into the auditorium.

  Wilma was close enough now to peek around the auditorium’s open-door jamb without losing her place in line. That turned out to be her second biggest mistake of the day. Her stomach went even more apeshit when she saw who all those loud “NEXT”s belonged to.

  Holy shit, it was Bohdan the Terrible!

  A flock of birds seemed to take flight in her belly, and her heart raced. She’d read a news item in the paper about a wrestler buying the All-American wrestling promotion from the former owner’s wife shortly after his passing. But it had been one sentence in an article mostly focused on the death of Detroit-area wrestling, even as national promotions like the WWF gave rise. The reporter hadn’t named names, so she’d assumed the purchaser was an older wrestler…and you know, actually American.

  But there behind a table set up inside the rink, sat one of the youngest villains in the All-American line up. He was wrestling royalty. His father, Vlad the Terrible had debuted in the early seventies, and then his hulking teenage son had joined him as a tag team villain duo in the early eighties.

  She remembered how hard she and her brothers had yelled and hissed at the TV as the father/son Russian team had dispassionately taken out two of their favorite heroes. The son had quickly surpassed his father. Somehow always finding a way to sneak his infamous steel chain into the fight, he’d soon gathered a reputation as a hardcore wrestler who’d do anything to quell fan favorites and win belts. So far, his deviousness had earned him two North American Heavyweight Championship belts, and Wilma wouldn’t be surprised if he added the World Championship at the end of the season. But he couldn’t be more than twenty-five. And the heavily muscled man dressed in sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt didn’t look like Vince McMahon or any of the other suited guys who owned wrestling promotions.

  And apparently, Wilma wasn’t the only one who was surprised. The nimble blonde faltered a little before climbing into the ring and announcing with a strained smile in her voice, “Hi, my name is Barbie. I’m so very, very excited to be here.”

  Even though they were in the middle of the auditorium, thanks to her heightened wolf senses, Wilma heard every word, down to the breathy tone she'd adopted while addressing Bohdan.

  “Barbie? Like the doll? You are serious about this name?”

  The question came not from Bohdan, but from a similarly accented woman standing outside of the ropes on the side of the ring furthest away from the door.

  Like, the nimble blonde, the woman with the accent also had bright yellow hair, but that was the one and only thing the two females had in common. The accented blonde had to be at least six feet tall in nothing but her bare feet. She wore a simple black leotard in stark contrast to the petite blonde’s pale pink one. And she had one of those stony faces that never softened, even when she smiled—which Wilma really couldn’t imagine this woman ever did.

  Strangely, Wilma liked the woman at first sight—and not just because she was making fun of Barbie’s name. The much taller wrestler reminded her of the older she-wolves from her kingdom pack. Females with hard faces and even harder attitudes. The kind of bad-ass bitches who could ride comfortably on the back of a bike, holding on to their male’s leather jackets with just their hands, no death grip hugs required. Or even better, ride their own damn bike and beat all the other guys to their destination.

  However, the petite blonde didn’t look as impressed with the massivee woman as Wilma. Nor did she look nearly as confident as she had when she first strutted in.

  “Well, it’s short for Barbara…” she answered, looking uneasily from Bohdan to the woman wrestler.

  “Any wrestling experience, Barbara?” the woman asked.

  Maybe a sister or a wife, Wilma thought. She looked to be in her thirties, but she had the same thick accent as Bohdan.

  “No, but I made it into the top three of the Miss Detroit pageant with my gymnastics routine.”

  Bohdan and the large woman exchanged a glance so cynical and disparaging that Wilma sensed exactly what they thought of Barbie’s top three Miss Detroit finish.

  “You have gymnastics,” Bohdan said, finally addressing Barbie. “This means after you show me one punch and one submission hold on my sister, Ursula, you can end with a moonsault.”

  The petite blonde goggled at his mountainous sister then stared back at him apparently baffled. “A moon what?” she asked.

  Bohdan stared at her. Blinked. Then yelled, “NEXT!”

  There was one more girl in front of Wilma. The brunette, who’d snickered at her friend’s catty joke. But when Miss Detroit Top Three ran past them crying into her hands, her friend ran after her, calling out, “Barbie? Barbie? Are you okay?”

  “NEXT!” B ohdan roared again, his voice taking on the distinctive tone of an impatient man who’d been kept waiting too long.

  Putting all her focus on not throwing up, Wilma walked into the auditorium and climbed into the ring. Yes, Bohdan was super intimidating, and this Ursula chick was a bad-ass. But hey, she was the Princess of Detroit. The daughter of a man who had declared himself the biggest, baddest muthafucka on the planet so often, it felt like a smite against her last name to feel even slightly intimidated by a couple of humans—but oh God, Bohdan was even more intimidating close up.

  He had to be six five easily. Maybe even six seven. And his face...forget Vlad. Apparently, Dolph Lundgren and, like, a granite statue of Ivan the Terrible had produced this stony-faced man. With a body like that and such sharp features, she might have thought him handsome. But sunk deep into his face were two dark, emotionless pits. Wilma guessed you could call those pits eyes, but they made her think of the sharks in the PBS nature specials her father liked to watch. It was like staring into a void. And Wilma had to look away or risk fear vomiting.