Werewolves of Haiti

"Wake up, Rachel, arrete de dormir, c'est le matin," came Aunt Gladys grating voice, and Rachel Etienne groaned and slapped her hand against her pillow, wishing the old Haitian woman would go away. Grunting something unintelligible, the young woman rose to her feet, and shook her head, then stretched. Outside, the sun was high in the sky and a suffocating heat gripped the town of Quartier Morin, northern Haiti, in its grip.

"Je t'ai entendu, ma tante, I'm up, sheesh," Rachel shouted, even as she headed out to the courtyard, and fetched water at the well so she could shower. Hidden between the mango trees, the young woman poured water over her head and got washed up. The cool water cascaded off of Rachel's hair, which she styled in thick dreadlocks, and she sighed happily. Just another day in her new life in the Republic of Haiti, land of her ancestors...

Born in the City of Miami, Florida, and adopted by a Haitian immigrant family, Rachel Etienne was living the American dream up until a year ago. Her adoptive father Roger Etienne ran afoul of some bad people during a real estate deal gone bad, and he sent Rachel to hide out in Haiti after a kidnapping attempt was made on their family. A widower for several years now, Roger Etienne was fiercely protective of his only daughter. After all, he vowed to his late wife Beatrice Mathurin-Etienne that he would take care of their precious Rachel...

"Can't believe this is what my life has become," Rachel mumbled to herself as she wrapped a towel tightly around her body, and walked back to the main house. The town of Quartier Morin, Rachel's new home, is a rural and deeply traditional commune lying a few kilometers from the City of Cap-Haitien, the second largest metropolitan area on the island of Haiti. Adapting to such a place was proving none too easy for the young Haitian-American woman...

"Jeune fille, I made breakfast," Aunt Gladys said, as Rachel emerged from her bedroom, clad in a black T-shirt featuring Rob Zombie, blue jeans, and Reebok sneakers. Rachel nodded at the old woman, hoping to avoid another argument. Sitting at the table, Rachel smiled at the plate of eggs, fried fish and plantains that awaited her. Taking a sip of the orange juice, Rachel nodded with contentment.

"Around here we don't have McDonald's restaurants like they do in America, this is Haiti, we believe in a natural and healthy breakfast," Aunt Gladys sneered, and Rachel flashed her a frozen smile, and kept her head down as she ate. Gladys Mathurin was her mother's elder sister, whom most of the family suspected of being a lesbian since she never married. Rachel didn't know the particulars of Aunt Gladys's private life and didn't care to know. Still, her least favorite aunt was awfully close to her good neighbor Helene, a short-haired, dark-skinned, cigar-smoking woman who lived down the street.

"Breakfast is delicious, Aunt Gladys, merci beaucoup," Rachel said, hoping to placate the taciturn and overly critical old woman, and for a moment, Aunt Gladys fell silent. With her glasses on the bridge of her nose, Aunt Gladys ignored her niece, her attention focused on the daily newspaper, Le Nouvelliste. Glad to have a moment of peace, Rachel wolfed down her breakfast, nodded respectfully at Aunt Gladys and then headed out.

"Stay out of trouble, Rachel," Aunt Gladys hollered, and Rachel sighed and put on her headphones. Glad to be out of the house, Rachel decided to go for a stroll. Even though Rachel missed her old digs in Miami, she had to admit that Quartier Morin, where her parents grew up, was turning out to be pretty decent. The place wasn't as bad as Rachel thought it would be...

There was something quaint about the traditional Haitian town, where men tipped their hats off to women they saw walking by, and old couples went to church every Sunday, holding each other's hands. In Florida, you could live next to someone for twenty years and never learn their first name. In Quartier Morin, Haiti, everybody knew everybody. Even though Rachel was a U.S. citizen, brought to the small Haitian town by circumstance, the fact that her family hailed from there made her welcome.

"Ou se pitit Beatrice avek Roger Etienne," said one of Rachel's new friends, a young man named Joseph Dubois, a few days after she moved to Quartier Morin. Rachel only knew a smattering of French and Haitian Creole, but she understood the young man perfectly. Six feet two inches tall, dark-skinned and handsome, with a cocksure grin, Joseph looked like trouble with a capital T.

"Je suis la fille de Monsieur et Madame Etienne," Rachel replied, and she fearlessly looked into Joseph's soulful brown eyes as she shook his hand. Joseph smiled, thrilled by Rachel's boldness. Standing five-foot-ten, curvy and sister, with rapturous dark brown skin and a big round booty that wouldn't quit, Rachel moved with the confidence and swagger unique to black women from America. Joseph, who'd become fascinated with American ladies during visits to Boston and Philadelphia in previous summers, was drawn to Rachel like a moth to the flame...

"Enchante, mademoiselle, you are very beautiful," Joseph said, winking at her, and Rachel smiled, trying not to roll her eyes. Joseph was a good-looking brother, and she was sure that he was used to having young women throw themselves at his feet. Local women that is. Rachel was used to his type, the player-type of brothers, her old school, Miami-Dade College, was full of them. She could see right through his oh-so charming bullshit...

"Merci, Mr. Joseph, I bet you say that to all the pretty ladies, have yourself a good day," Rachel said cockily, and she smiled as Joseph blinked in surprise. With a curt nod the young Haitian-American woman walked away, well aware that Joseph's eyes were following her every move. Rachel went for a walk around "Bouk La," as the locals called the main square of Quartier Morin, over by the Dispensary. Impulsively, she caught a bus to Cap-Haitien, intent on checking out the sights and sounds in town...

Rachel caught the Camionette and sat in the crowded vehicle, which rode the pothole-filled road for twenty five minutes before it reached the City of Cap-Haitien. She got off at Rue Deux, and went to get her hair done at Chez Nounoune, a popular hair salon that had stood the test of time. After getting her locks styled and shined, Rachel walked down the street, past La Cathedrale Du Sacre Coeur, one of Haiti's oldest churches, and headed to the crowded, ancient marketplace, sandwiched between Rue Huit and Rue Dix.

"Avez vous cela dans un size six?" Rachel asked the saleswoman as she admired a pair of stylish black jeans, and the old woman smiled and nodded. Money exchanged hands, and Rachel tucked the jeans into her backpack after inspecting them. Walking in the marketplace, Rachel smiled as she took in the sights and sounds. This was Haiti at its best. The marketplace was loud, lively, a place where fortunes were made and lost. And she absolutely loved it...

"There you are," came a voice, and Rachel turned around, surprised to hear someone address her in English. A few meters from her stood a tall, well-dressed black man, flanked by four others, two men and two women. All of them looked fit, and glared at her with undisguised hostility. Although they were all of African descent, something told Rachel that they were definitely not Haitian...

"Yes, who are you and what do you want?" Rachel asked hesitantly, and the man smiled and looked at her the way one looks at an exotic animal at the zoo. A sense of dread which she could not explain gripped the young woman, and she felt like fleeing. Refusing to be intimidated, Rachel stood her ground. Whoever this bozo was, Rachel didn't want him to see her sweat...

"I'm Lincoln, and what I want is simple, Rachel, I know who you are and what you are, and I want to rid the universe of your kind," the man said, smiling wickedly, and with that, he drew a pistol and aimed it squarely at her chest. All around them, people gasped in shock and fled in all directions. Rachel blinked in surprise and froze, and Lincoln smiled and his finger began to squeeze the trigger...

With death imminent, Rachel recoiled and tried to flee, but inside, she knew it would be too late. In the next seconds, a very confusing sequence of events took place. One moment Lincoln stood there, about to shoot her, and the next, he was howling in pain, for someone chopped his arm off, and it fell to the ground, his hand still holding the gun.

"Rachel, run, dammit," shouted an angry masculine voice, and Rachel blinked in surprise as she recognized Joseph Dubois, the smooth-talker from Quartier Morin. Clutching his bloody machete with which he'd chopped off Lincoln's arm, the young man faced the others. Pulling out various weapons, from revolvers to rifles, the black-clad squad began firing. Without hesitation, Rachel took off...

Rachel ran and ran, and she lost herself among the crowd that ran in all directions, driven to panic by the gunfire. The young woman ran and didn't stop until she came to a place with a sign that stated "Notary Public" up front, and went inside. Well-dressed men and women sat in a waiting room, awaiting a meeting with a public official. Rachel found a seat far away from the door, and sat down, taking a few calming breaths.

The young woman's mind raced. Who were those guys? Could they be her father's enemies? No way they could have followed Rachel all the way from Florida. As Rachel tried to calm down, a well-dressed, lovely young woman with short black hair and dark brown skin approached her and offered her a glass of water. Rachel took it and nodded gratefully at her, and the young woman looked at her, a puzzled expression on her face.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle, je suis Nirva, the notary public's assistant, how may I help you today?" the young woman asked, and Rachel pursed her lips, and hesitated. Should she tell the young woman the truth? Nah, Rachel had no idea who was after her or how far their network of connections extended. And they had to have connections. Even in Haiti, one does not simply brandish guns and open fire in a crowded marketplace in broad daylight...

"Salut, je suis Rachel, je viens de la Floride, and I am in trouble," Rachel said, and Nirva sighed, and nodded. After a brief hesitation, Rachel sat Nirva down and told her what happened to her. Well, the Cliffs notes version anyway. When Rachel finished her little spiel, Nirva looked at her, her brown eyes wide. Rachel bit her lip, and Nirva gently touched her shoulder, and looked at her pensively.

"Rachel, tu es dans le petrin, if you want, I can call the police," Nirva offered, and Rachel hesitated, then shook her head. The last thing Rachel wanted was to get the police involved. Growing up in the City of Miami, Florida, where even though Haitians, Jamaicans, Puerto Ricans, Asians and other minorities made up the bulk of the city's population, Rachel had learned to distrust police. They abused their power and had a strong bias against people like her. Even though Rachel was in Haiti, far from Florida, her distrust of the authorities was very much part of her...

"No, thank you, I just need to stay ahead of them, I will be fine," Rachel said, and she thanked Nirva for her help. The young Haitian woman looked at Rachel, and hesitated. Sighing, Nirva took out a piece of paper, and scribbled her name and telephone number on it, and then handed it to Rachel, who pocketed it. Rachel smiled, astonished by Nirva's willingness to help a total stranger...

"Stay out of trouble, belle jeune fille," Nirva said, smiling, and Rachel nodded and shook her hand, then took off. Trying to steer clear of the marketplace, Rachel walked up a neighborhood that sat on a hill, and soon found herself near the walled, citadel-like enclave occupied by College Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours, an all-male Catholic school that her father Roger Etienne mentioned attending. Running out of options, and knowing how everything in Haiti was built on family connections, Rachel headed there...

"Rachel," came a voice, and Rachel whirled around, ready to fight. Upon seeing who'd called her name, she relaxed, somewhat. Joseph Dubois stood before her, only he looked quite disheveled. Also, his stylish silk shirt was riddled with bullet holes, but he appeared to be alright. Rachel looked at her unexpected savior warily, not knowing what to expect...

"Hey, Joseph, thanks for your help back there, now, want to tell me what's going on?" Rachel asked, and Joseph smiled and nodded. Beckoning for her to follow, Joseph walked into the vast courtyard of C.N.D.P.S. and led her to a bench, under a huge tree, and sat her down. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Joseph smiled at Rachel, and then explained himself...

"Rachel, I would have thought it was evident, you and I are the same, our kind are being hunted by The Trackers, and when I saw that they cornered you, I gave you a hand, that's all," Joseph said, smiling at Rachel and shrugging casually. Rachel blinked, not knowing what to say. Some of the things Joseph said didn't make any sense. What did he mean by 'their kind'?

"Dude, what do you mean by that?" Rachel asked, and Joseph looked at her, incredulity all over his dark, handsome face. The young Haitian man licked his lips, and then, he looked over his shoulder. Rachel followed his gaze, and shrugged. It was summertime, and although there were bound to be some people hanging around the C.N.D.P.S. campus, she and Joseph were alone, for the moment...

"Come on, Rachel, stop playing, I am a Loup Garou, a werewolf, and so are you," Joseph said, and before Rachel's astonished eyes, he began to change. First, Joseph's eyes turned bright yellow, and his teeth elongated and sharpened. Fur grew all over his face, and his facial features changed, even as his body grew bigger and more muscular. Rachel gasped in shock, and then, amazingly, Joseph winked at her...

"What the hell are you?" Rachel shrieked, and Joseph stared at her, shocked by her reaction. Screaming in fright, Rachel got up and took off. Joseph morphed back to normal, and took off after her. Rachel ran, and her own speed surprised her as she raced away from the C.N.D.P.S. campus and went downhill. She didn't stop until she reached a public park called Place Rue Dix-Huit, and sat down on a bench, under a tree, and relaxed in the shade...

Rachel pulled out her cell phone and called Aunt Gladys, but the taciturn old woman didn't pick up. Running out of options, Rachel hesitated, and then dialed the only other number she could think of. Nirva. Much to Rachel's surprise, Nirva picked up on the first attempt, and Rachel was both surprised and pleased to hear the worry in her voice...

"I'll come get you," Nirva said, and Rachel told her where she was. Ten minutes later, Rachel pulled up in a nice red Rav4, and a grateful Rachel sat on the passenger's side. Nirva looked at her and smiled, and then kissed her on the cheek, in the Haitian manner. Rachel wasn't used to such social greetings but smiled at her impromptu helper, who drove off...

"I live in Bel Air, in a nice place with high walls, we'll be safe there," Nirva said, and Rachel smiled and nodded, thankful for the young woman's help. Nirva drove through the streets of Cap-Haitien, and Rachel watched as the streets ticked by. Rue Espagnole. Rue Deux. Up they went into Bel Air, which sat on a hill dominating the rest of the Haitian metropolis. They drove past Le Stade, where soccer games between local leagues A.S.C. and F.I.C.A. often played, and didn't stop until they reached an enclave that Nirva called La Loge...

"Nice place," Rachel said, admiring the beautiful villa with the high metallic walls painted bright red, and Nirva smiled and nodded, and then they went inside. Once on the premises, they were greeted by a tall and burly armed guard, whom Nirva introduced as Serge. Nirva then gave Rachel a tour of the place, which included a swimming pool, much to Rachel's surprise. When she inquired about the lavish surroundings, Nirva smiled coyly, and licked her lips.

"My father Michel Augustin is the notary public, and he used to be the Mayor of Cap-Haitien, back in the day, my family has connections and money," Nirva said, and she gave a stunned Rachel a tour of the place. Rachel smiled, impressed by the villa, and her beautiful and bold hostess. The four-bedroom, two-story villa with the swimming pool and private garden reminded Rachel of something out of MTV Cribs, which she'd watched back in the day.

"Nirva, my sister, you got it going on," Rachel said, and Nirva grinned, and drew closer to her. Suddenly, the young Haitian woman was all up in Rachel's personal space, as they say. Nirva smiled and then paused, her face inches from Rachel's. The young Haitian-American woman smiled nervously as Nirva caressed her dreadlocks, and pressed her index finger against her lips...

"Don't worry, Rachel, you'll be safe with me," Nirva said, and then she kissed Rachel on the lips. Although surprised by Nirva's kiss, Rachel nevertheless kissed her back. She did not remember undressing, or how she ended up in the swimming pool with Nirva, but Rachel did not mind. After the day she'd had, a day filled with random bozos with guns, and a machete-wielding flirtatious werewolf, getting kissed by a female stranger wasn't the weirdest thing to happen to Rachel...

"Hmm, Nirva, your lips taste sweet," Rachel whispered, and Nirva grinned and kissed her some more. The two young women lay on a cabana bed by the pool, and tenderly made love. Nirva looked at Rachel, whose curvy, gorgeous body was so damn tense it was almost eerie. With her great care and patience, Nirva eased all tension out of Rachel, kissing her and exploring her sweet spots with her knowing mouth and eager hands...

"You taste even sweeter, my dear," Nirva paused to say, as she kissed a path from Rachel's neck to her breasts, and then pinched her nipples. Rachel sighed happily and began to relax at last as Nirva went to work on her. Spreading Rachel's thick thighs, Nirva inhaled her womanly scent and smiled. No two women smelled or tasted alike down below, and Nirva liked the way Rachel tasted. A most unique fragrance and taste, to be sure...

"Oh fuck," Rachel cried out, arching her back as tendrils of pleasure coursed through her core, thanks to Nirva, who buried her face between her legs. As Nirva's tongue slid into her pussy, Rachel trembled, loving what the young Haitian woman was doing to her. Nirva looked up at her new lover and smiled, loving the effect her expert lovemaking was having on Rachel. The cutie from Florida hadn't felt anything yet...

"How was it, sweetie?" Nirva asked Rachel, a couple of hours later, after she'd sexed her real good. Rachel smiled and sighed happily, thrilled by what she and Nirva had just done. This was Rachel's first experience with another woman, and she was determined that it would not be the last. Instead of replying, Rachel pulled Nirva into her arms and kissed her.

"It was amazing, you are amazing, Nirva," Rachel said, tenderly stroking the other woman's face, and Nirva smiled, pleased by her words. For a moment, Rachel thought she was saw a hint of regret on Nirva's lovely face, but it vanished like ice in the sun, replaced by a confident, happy grin. What is going on in that head of hers? Rachel wondered.

"I'm glad to hear that, ma belle, now, get dressed, while I make us something to eat," Nirva said, and she got up, and Rachel grinned as she admired Nirva's athletic yet curvy physique. The young Haitian woman had a booty that Tennis legend Serena Williams would envy, that's for damn sure. Rachel got dressed, and then excused herself to use the washroom. As she sat down to pee, Rachel heard Nirva getting busy in the vast kitchen, and smiled, thanking her lucky stars to have met someone so awesome...