August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 6)

Mr. Kane sat at a flimsy table, uncomfortably clothed in a three piece suit. The plastic chair was making his back ache, and Professor Langley still had enough wind in him to drive a storm across the ocean. He was giving a labyrinthine answer to a direct question: “How has the British government’s licensing procedure changed over the last decade, and how has it affected independent investigators.” Kane’s answer was simple.

“They have tied the hands of well meaning investigators and opened the door for charlatans that run pyramid schemes disguised as ‘Supernatural Suppression Societies’. It has been a load of shit, and it won’t get better.” The crowd reacted poorly to most of Kane’s answers, and he didn’t care. Their discontented rumblings just meant that he was telling the truth.

Kane closed his dark, abyssal eyes. Folks put make-up on the dead ‘cause they want to pretend that they’re still fine. Just sleeping. The way I see it, people hate the truth. The truth is not a pretty girl with a swan neck. Even if it was, she’d have strangling marks on that nice neck. No, the truth is a gorgon with a bulging tongue and dead eyes. Kane opened his eyes and studied the others on his panel.

They were a sad lot, mostly fat and retired. Old Allard sat on the far end of the table, dozing lightly, lost in a cloud of dreams. Next to him was the faded flower that used to be called Violet Rose. Nowadays, no one really bothered calling her anything.

The Professor was the youngest of them and even he had more wrinkles than a baby Shar Pei. His frantic gestures and grand words were most of what was left of a once brilliant mind that had all ready started to atrophy. That could easily be August in thirty years.

 
He turned his eyes on himself, seeing a man that looked like a tiger in a zoo. Proud, vital, and out of his element. He suit was tight; the wool was making his flesh crawl. His mouth was dry. He smelled the stink of humanity all around him. His tanned hand tensed into a fist as he began to feel anxious. He stroked the revolver at his side and it reassured him.

He scanned the audience, some of whom were falling asleep as the Professor lectured the crowd on the finer points of form 27-1-AB/9002, which allowed a private supernatural investigator access to Her Majesty’s private library. He lauded it like the Second Coming, despite there being no occult books of interest in Her Majesty’s library that weren’t all ready available to even Tom, Mabel, and Jackson.

His eyes moved to his silver pocket watch. He ran his thumb on the embossed wolves that cavorted on the circumference of the lid. Popping open the watch, he read the time, and groaned when he realized he had another hour to spend in the convention hall.

“Elijah Kane, Sir?” asked a waif-like girl dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a high collar. “What do you feel about the treatment of Elves in America compared to the treatment of Elves in France?” Kane drew his full attention to the girl, and looked deep into her golden eyes. She warily backed away like a person would back away from a rabid dog.

“I think that the treatment of Elves in America is despicable. Holding them and breeding them like endangered species is wrong. It is nothing short of eugenics. Their laboratory lives are wasted, particularly since captive Elves life about a quarter of their natural lifespan. In France, they are at least allowed to die out like the obsolete species they are.” Kane spoke doggedly, his tone indomitable.

“You can’t mean that,” said Violet, stirring weakly from her seat. “A people are judged by their acts, especially their acts towards the least of its members. Elves have given much to French culture, and allowing their species to die is an unallowable and unforgivable sin.”

“Yes, I agree with Miss. Rose…” said the Professor before Kane interrupted him.

“The sin is the one being committed in America! They are genetically altering the Elves through their experiments. When the day that Elves in America are free comes, their species will be indistinct from humanity,” argued Kane vehemently.

“See here Kane, we…” said the Professor before Violet Rose interrupted him.

“But isn’t that what you want? A society free of supernaturals? No more werewolves, no more vampires. Why are the Elves free from your wrath?” Violet’s neck was turning pink with anger.

“Vampires are a blight. Werewolves are a blight. Elves are the best of all of us. Most are incapable of evil. Show me a vampire that doesn’t harm society, and I’ll show you a vampire that has hidden his past.” The hall fell silent; the only sound in the quiet was Allard’s soft snoring.

“I suppose we must agree to disagree then?” said the Professor as he folded his hands over his stomach. Both Kane and Rose glared at the Professor. The girl in the audience sat, her head dipped shamefully. With difficulty, the panel discussion went on, but the audience seemed to lose its enthusiasm. When the audience broke apart, Kane was left sitting on the stage with Violet Rose.

“That was low, Vi,” grumbled Kane. “What do you think Sasha would say if she was still here?”

“She’d say that her husband’s a damn fool that’s trying to purify the world with fire, even if innocents need to die.” replied Violet.

“Everyone needs to die sometime,” retorted Kane weakly, “Even Allard, someday.”

“These are lives, Eli. These are real people with real contributions to society. Even now, medical research is being done on vampire blood and its disease fighting ability. Have you heard about Bukowski’s New Treatment? He has developed a comprehensive program designed to rehabilitate criminal vampires and help them reintegrate into society. His work with Sebottendorff has been miraculous.”

“Claus Von Sebottendorff? As a man he was a monster, and as a vampire he is a fiend.”

“Even so, if life can be preserved, even unlife, it is worth it. Our time here is precious. You of all people know that.” Violet Rose took Kane’s hand and held it with each of her own.

“Which is why they must die. No matter how many treatments there are, no matter what research will be done, at the end of the day a duck is a duck.” retorted Kane, pulling away from the fragile looking woman.

“And what does Rebecca think of this attitude?” asked Violet.

“She agrees. The government took her ten years ago, just before she finished college. Seems like half-Elf is enough to get you taken into a program. Of course, you didn’t know that, did you Vi?” Kane’s words were acrid.

“I’m sorry Eli! I didn’t know,” apologized Violet frantically.

“At least they let me see her once a week. She’s doing well in that damned commune. If you’ll let me go, I have business to attend to. Just ’cause I’m on the old fogies panel, it doesn’t mean I’m retired.”

“Eli, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, you sure are.” Kane pushed past her brashly.

“Elijah Kane, don’t be a damned fool!”

“What do you want me to do?” raved Kane, “I tried to walk the narrow, but my balance got bad. Now all I have is revenge.”

“Don’t leave like this Eli. I know you are better than this.” Violet Rose ordered, despite being dwarfed by Kane.

“Good bye Vi. Good bye and good luck. Tell Charles I said hi.” Kane began to walk away. He felt Violet’s eyes boring into his back. She was watching him, probably crying.

“He’s dead Kane. Just like you’ll be if you keep on this maniac path.” Violet’s voice wavered as she called out. “And don’t think you can fight your way out of Hell.”

Kane hesitated for just a moment before he disappeared in the crowd.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 5)

9

Sigrid was a tall, Norwegian beauty. Her shoulders were narrow, her legs long, and her posture rigid as a runway model. Draped in high-end, well tailored clothes, no one would suspect that she seldom had anyone to impress. Most days, she worked in her pajamas while lounging in her sparse apartment in Vardø. Her small group of friends included a smattering of artists and radar technicians; people that wouldn’t care that she could read a sentence and be able to devise everything about the person who wrote it.

The IGPS categorized her as a Bibliomancer, though she hardly considered herself kin or kith to those strange fortunetellers that used books to forecast the future. She knew that she was much more than a garden variety con-artist that spouted vague statements and claimed they were visions from beyond.

She walked down the Champs-Elysees, peering at the tall, colorful window displays of Louis-Vuitton, and considered stopping in. She had plenty of Euros on hand, and a lot more in the bank. She had a reputation for honest work; she had managed to salvage ancient spells from the hands of Islamic extremists and transcribed Atlantian texts, but it was her illicit doings which lined her pockets. Black mail came as second nature to someone that found secrets as easily as she did.

She considered the shabby satchel that hung limply over her shoulder. It went with her ensemble as well as paint splatters went with fur. It looked worn and worthless, but it held a priceless treasure: The Vampire Folio.

At a glance, it was a simple document about vampire attacks during the Middle Ages, but it was truly much more than that. It secretly held the names of many powerful vampires, several of whom would be willing to pay handsomely to keep their lives and ages hidden.

Most world governments had long placed restraints on vampire society. Each vampire was required to register with the government. Every hundred years or so, they were required to change identities, often losing their lifetime of accumulated wealth. Seeing as a vampire didn’t worry about many mortal expenses, it wouldn’t take much for them to amass gigantic estates. In order to keep the mortal economy moving, it was prudent to keep wealth moving from the hands of vampires, where it would normally stagnate.

With the names of a few choice vampires, Sigrid would be able to amass a gigantic estate of her own. First, she would need to let her targets know what she had, and that she was not one to be trifled with. However, she needed powerful allies in order to bring her scheme to fruition.

Sadly avoiding the entry to Louis-Vuitton, she kept her eyes facing forward. There would be time for fashion later; she had the most important meeting of her life awaiting her in the Metro station across from the Arc de Triumphe. As she carefully crossed the street, she eyed Emperor Napoleon’s monument with its trumpeting, triumphant angels. Soon, the angels would trumpet for her success.

She made her way underground, leaving the light of day at the top of an incredibly long flight of stairs that seemed to lead up to Heaven and down to Hell. She slowed her stride, glancing swiftly from side to side, visually sweeping the narrow tunnel. She could hear the sound of a guitar in the distance, but it drew closer. The playing was melancholic and hypnotic as the chords progressed from D to E flat, then to A. It sounded familiar, and it sounded evil.

“You are her then?” asked a man draped in a long, black shroud. His pallid fingers strummed his guitar dexterously. His hands continued, as though possessed of an intelligence of their own, as he spoke. “You are her, and I am him. Let us see the book then.”

“What is the word?” she asked.

“Word?” he asked, “There is no word. She told me of no word. Who are you? Perhaps you are not who I was expecting.” A fanged smile never left his face.

“There is no word. None, save Tabitha. She sent us to meet each other.” Sigrid pulled the Vampire Folio from the satchel. “She said that once I was done with it that it was to go to Camille and leave it with him.”

“Lucky for you that I am he.” His playing stopped abruptly. “The Gypsy chose well when she picked you. You are punctual.” He adjusted his guitar on his gaunt frame, letting it hang by his side. “If you will put it in your bag, I will take it away.”

“First, I need answers. I need to know why you are my contact instead of Quaashie. He and I have a past. You aren’t a player in this.” Her tone was sharp and accusatory.

“Quaashie is dead. Gunned down by an American. We will have revenge on him soon. Do you have news about the witch and her man?”

“They survived the night. I’m meeting with August this afternoon,” she smiled grimly, “Ironically, it was my guarantee of safety. If I don’t meet him at the cathedral by four, he’ll have no trouble finding where I am.”

“Using the enemy to protect you from an ally? Are you sure you aren’t a vampire?” asked Camille, amused.

“No, but I learned from one,” replied Sigrid, “and he will pay for what he did.”

To Part 6

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 4)

7

August kneeled on the floor, his pallid chest and back covered with whorls and symbols that Minerva painted on him with ketchup from the hotel’s kitchen. She glanced back and forth at the computer screen, transcribing the image that Tobias had sent from America. As Minerva smeared a wide line of ketchup under the helix of August’s ear, August jerked away, repulsed by the sensation.

“Do you have to put it there?” he asked, feeling cranky and sounding irritable.

“Yes. You don’t want to end up like the monk Hoichi, do you?” responded Minerva pleasantly. When he saw her smile, August couldn’t help but feel that she was enjoying torturing him.

“No. I’d like to keep my ears, thank you. Then again, this isn’t quite the same.” August concentrated on the rising moon that was looming in the window, ignoring the sensation of Minerva’s delicate touches along the nape of his neck. He was glad that Tobias was awake to receive their call, and that he proposed a solution so swiftly. Now, August was hoping that the solution would work.

“It is similar enough. The symbols will provide the same protective properties, coupled with a strong, repulsive force that will push the Hex imp away,” explained Minerva. “When the imp is driven off, you will be invisible to it. Unable to fulfill its purpose, the Hex imp will run off. If we follow it, the beastie should lead us right to the person that set it on you.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” asked August meekly.

“Then you will smell like tomatoes. It seems like a worthwhile risk.” A ketchup bottle burped up the last of its contents, and the ritual was complete. August clasped his hands together, then separated them, bending his fingers into the Karana Mudra. He could feel the imp’s tail tighten like an anaconda around his neck. Soon, he found himself struggling for breath. He could hear Minerva’s reassurances, but they seemed to be receding into the blackness that was overtaking him.

“Keep your focus!” He could hear Minerva shouting from very far away. “Breathe in!” she said, and the breath alluded him. His head began to pound, and he felt panic rising in his blood. He fought the urge to stand, using every ounce of his will to remain kneeling.

Suddenly, his breath poured into his lungs. The imp had finally been driven off by the ritual.

“Keep still. It is nearly over,” said Minerva. “It is visible; keep still.” August did what he was told, happy to breathe freely. “It is going for the door,” said Minerva excitedly, “Let’s go.”

8

Just before sunrise, August and Minerva left the hotel. August, wearing a shirt over his ketchup stained skin stalked ahead of Minerva, following the rat-like scurrying of the Hex Imp. On an ornate bridge spanning the Seine, August and Minerva watched as the diminutive creature crawled towards a tent that was standing under the next bridge.

“They have enough bridges, don’t you think?” mused August, feeling exhilarated just to be alive and on the offensive. “Enough bridges and enough water and enough imps. Twice! Twice I nearly suffocated. If we go to any opera houses, I’ll need to keep my hand level with my neck.”

“I don’t know if you need to worry about a Punjab lasso in the shadows just now,” said Minerva, “It is going to be a bright, sunny day, and I don’t see a deformed genius in sight.”

The flap of the tent opened, and the imp scuttled inside. Moments later, August could see the girl clearly when she left the tent, walking determinedly towards the Champs de Mars and hotel where he and Minerva were staying. He wondered what the Hex Imp told her; he knew the imp wouldn’t be able to communicate what the ritual was, as they were incapable of speech. With purposeful strides, she walked along the level, wide street, and August wondered if she was going to try to finish what she started.

“We’ll need to stay a good distance away,” warned Minerva. “We don’t want to arouse any suspicion. Besides, if something happened, we don’t have many courses of action. We’re respected back home, but we have no jurisdiction here at all.”

“Maybe we should find someone that does?” offered August as he walked, trying to seem as casual as a man could with ketchup painstakingly painted on his face.

“The police don’t work with the paranormal at all, aside from keeping the most dangerous elements hidden. It wouldn’t do their tourist trade any good if they let the public know that they have the largest population of witches and third largest population of vampires in the world.” As Minerva spoke, August felt the puzzle pieces fall into place. While they were chasing the Hex Imp and shadowing the witch, they left their hotel room empty. In their rush, they didn’t notice that they left their room’s door ajar. Realizing that the Vampire Folio was protected only by a few illusions, a ward or two, and a safe door, August quickened his pace. He hadn’t told anyone except Minerva and Tobias that he had brought the folio to Paris with him. That’s when he remembered the third person who knew the Vampire Folio was in Paris: Sigrid Koenig.

To Part 5

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 3)

5

Hearing August’s thrashing and splashing, Minerva decided to forego modesty and rushed through the bathroom door. She saw August’s hands groping at the side of the enormous, rectangular tub while one of his legs kicked and writhed in the air. Seeing his struggle, Minerva didn’t afford herself a chance to think and loosed a bolt of energy that shattered the side of the tub. Water spilled out in a wide arc, and August tumbled out onto the floor, gasping for breath.

“August! August!” shouted Minerva, trying to get some response.

“I’m okay,” said August breathlessly. Minerva grabbed a thick, plush robe and wrapped it around August’s shoulders, embracing him tightly. August felt safe and secure in her arms.

‘What happened?” she asked, heedless of the seeping water and shattered tub. August stood and pointed to the mirror, where an imp sat on the shoulder of his reflection. Its skin was livid like the underside of a corpse that had been laying about. The small, fish-faced creature had a long prehensile tail that wrapped around August’s neck and body. It grinned malevolently, showing gums lined with human teeth.

“A Hex Imp,” observed Minerva, “What did you do to deserve this?”

“Nothing that I know of. Unless… Oh crap!” August grabbed at his foot after stepping on one of the dull plastic shards from the tub. The imp shifted its bulk, sending August off balance and crashing into Minerva. The pair fell to the floor with a subdued splash. For the briefest moment, August realized that his face was pressed against Minerva’s bosom; he quickly got to his feet, swiftly belting the front of his robe closed before offering Minerva a hand.

“I’m sorry,” said August as he helped Minerva to her feet, “So sorry…” His embarrassment quickly mellowed when he saw the gaping hole in the side of the tub. “What did you do?” asked August accusingly. “Did you use your magic to save me?”

Minerva slowly nodded her head, not making eye contact with August. Long ago, she had made a pledge to August that she would not use magic, and she seemed loathed to admit that she broke her vow.

August’s heart hung heavy as an iron block in his chest. He was overwhelmed with emotions, and could only manage to say “Thank you” before tears streamed down his face. The moment lasted briefly; someone rapped on the door. Minerva rushed to open it, leaving August on the floor.

He could hear the hushed conversation. It was one of the staff at the door.

“Is everything all right?” asked the bellhop with a mild French accent, “Room 315 complained about a loud bang that sounded like a cannon. I was going to bring the cot and said I would see if there was something wrong.” Waves of worry lapped at August’s waist, and he felt like he was sinking fast. He imagined the bellhop’s response when he saw the shattered tub.

“The tub ruptured,” responded Minerva honestly. “I don’t know how it happened. There must have been a lot of stress on it recently.” She sounded like she was telling the truth, and her voice gave no hint that she was skirting around the issue.

“Is everyone safe?” asked the bellhop, his concerned voice seeming forced.

“Luckily no one’s hurt.” said Minerva. “There’s a lot of water, but we’re soaking it up with towels. If you can send a custodian, it would be for the best.”

　

6

Even in the City of Lights, there was darkness. Danger prowled in the shadows, oblivious of the romantic climate or tourist appeal of Paris. A woman, draped in a shimmering satin dress and woolen shawl sat on a bench behind Notre Dame. Shadows like snakes writhed towards her, wilting flowers as they passed. As they massed together, they rose in a humanoid shape.

“Quaashie, do you still think I went too far?” asked the seated woman is a language that sounded a little like every language on earth, but nothing like any single one. The shadow slowly became substantial, solidifying into the shape of a dark, muscular man. He had no hair on his sleek, ebon body, and his eyes were darker than the deepest pit.

“They are both very strong. They will come and find you. You will not be able to withstand them with your hexes. All the imps of Hell won’t stem the tide of destruction the witch will work if the warlock is killed. The one you set on his is belligerent, and it won’t follow its instructions for long.” Quaashie took in a deep breath of the air; his entire body grew slightly with the inhalation, then shrank with the exhalation. “You play a dangerous game, Tabitha. Most Gypsies don’t open themselves to danger so overtly. Not over something so petty. What aren’t you telling me?”

“My secrets are just that: secret. I will tell when the time is right, but until then…” Tabitha closed her lips tightly, and Quaashie shook his head. “You will continue watching them and report back to me. Keep yourself hidden,” said Tabitha matronly.

“The witch knows that I was following her. There was a man that spotted me in Montmartre, and since then staying hidden from the witch has been taxing.” Quaashie began to dissolve back into the shadows.

“Who was this man?” demanded Tabitha. Before it faded completely. Quaashie’s face distorted in terror. A magically silenced gun shot from a flintlock pistol answered Tabitha’s question and sent Quaashie to the ground in a heap. Mr. Kane looked at the Gypsy like an undertaker estimating the size coffin he should build. His pistol still glowed with a white, eldritch light; arcane symbols carved along its barrel were all ready fading to blackness.

“I know you can understand me, so don’t play dumb. Who are you working for, and why shouldn’t I put you in a hole?” asked Mr. Kane stolidly. Tabitha stepped backwards and threw her shawl into the air, and before Mr. Kane could fire his pistol, she was gone.

To Part 4

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 1)

 

1

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” asked Minerva, concern coloring her voice so she sounded like a mother.

“No, I have it,” replied August breathlessly as he led the way down the hall, staggering forward. Laden with luggage like a burro, his face was slowly turning from pink to red. Minerva followed slowly behind, carrying her bag of clothing. Not normally a manly sort of guy, she was surprised and annoyed that August wouldn’t let her carry any of the luggage. It was a small battle in order for him to concede one, small carry-on.

Minerva found herself wishing that the International Gathering of Paranormal Specialists had also invited Tobias, but since his run in with the police, he had fallen out of favor with the IGPS. That sort of ban was one of the difficulties a werewolf would need to deal with sooner or later, and it hurt Tobias badly when he did not get a letter from the IGPS inviting him to join in on the bi-annual convention, particularly on the year that it was to be held in Paris.

August paused in front of a door bearing the number 619 and nodded his head towards it.

“This is us.” he said, lowering the luggage to the dull, red carpet. Minerva used the card she was given at check-in to open the door. The room was done-up in inoffensive beige tones. There was one window, one television, one bathroom, one water closet, and one bed. Frustration grew inside of Minerva like a thorny rose. August let out an aggravated sigh and slumped against the wall.

“Not again. Not again!” he said, catching his breath and regaining his pale coloration. This was their third attempt at getting a room with two beds, and Minerva didn’t want to try for a fourth, half fearing that August would collapse from exhaustion.

“We’ll just have to make do.” Minerva said with resignation.

“The bath tubs are large enough to sleep in, right?” asked August. “It won’t be comfortable, but it’s only a week.”

“We can take turns. That would make the most sense.” suggested Minerva with egalitarian zeal.

“Nonsense. I won’t have you sleep in the tub. It just wouldn’t be right. Just let me rest a bit and we can try one more time.” said August, sweat still glistening on his face. Minerva was near her limit; she couldn’t take much more of August’s gallantry.

“No, we’ll just accept it! It’s useless; just as Odysseus couldn’t get home, so are we fated to wander the hotel, longing for a room with two beds. Sure, if they send us to every one of their three-hundred rooms, eventually we’re likely to find the one with two beds, but we’ll probably have to endure many-a-trial-and-tribulation before then!” Minerva became acutely aware of how aggressive she was sounding. She could see August starting to shrink in the face of her tirade. “A seventy percent chance of harpies, I’d guess.” She added facetiously, hoping to soften the mood.

“Well, you know how I hate harpies.” remarked August dryly. He walked across the room with all the impetus of a zombie, slumping into a chair by the window. Seeing the view of a hotel under construction, he sighed heavily.

“At least the last room had a better view.” complained August.

“What does it matter? There’s a whole city to explore; not to mention all the convention activities. Stop being such a grump. At least try to see it as an adventure.” Minerva dreaded spending the week with August in such low spirits. She had tried to hide how disappointed she was when she discovered that Tobias would not be coming along; with August acting so childishly, her disappointment threatened to overcome her cheery facade. It seemed like the further he got from home, the crabbier August became. Minerva knew that he never traveled much, but had a hard time accepting that he could be so disconsolate in such a wonderful city.

August drabbed himself from the chair and popped open the window. His dark hair quivered in the breeze. Minerva couldn’t stand another moment of his moping.

“I’m going to have a look around. If you want to pine away for home until the panel on Tuesday, you can. But August, this is a beautiful city. I won’t tell you how to spend your time, but you should enjoy it before it is all gone.” Minerva rummaged through her luggage, searching for the guidebook she packed. It was short, but exceedingly thick. Neon strips of paper peeked out from the pages like fringe, marking everything she wanted to see.

“I’ll leave this with you. I’ve read it so much that I have most of it committed to memory.” It wasn’t an exaggeration; she knew her whole plan of attack by heart, right down to which streets she wanted to avoid. If everything else failed, she spoke French fluently. Half-heartedly, August picked up the book and began thumbing through it. Content that she had done all she could to get August motivated, Minerva left the room, leaving August alone with the city of Paris.

2

August unzipped his luggage, carefully removing the tender scrolls and instruments from his carry-on. He frowned deeply when he saw that his Key of Solomon was broken. He tossed the cracked disc into the trash and hoped that he wouldn’t come across any demons before he found another one. His books survived the trip intact, which provoked a sigh of relief. He deposited his copy of The Vampire Folio into the room’s safe. He had brought is so that he could get it analyzed by Sigrid Koenig, Europe’s leading Bibliomancer.

The folio was tall and wide, and barely fit into the safe. It contained a history of vampirism in Germany, and also hid a list of powerful vampires from the Middle Ages and before. It had been feverishly sought by mad vampires and righteous vampire hunters, but August was determined to keep it in his possession until he uncovered all of its secrets. Closing the safe door, August drew a symbol in the air before it, warding away any unwanted attention.

Satisfied, he stepped out of the room with Minerva’s guide book in hand. He would give Paris a chance. Walking out into the pleasant Springtime heat, he walked the short distance towards the Seine under the watchful Eiffel tower. He had no intention of going near it, but it called him with a siren song whose main verse was “You may never come this way again.”

He couldn’t help but stare at the hulking brown monstrosity. He immediately felt a kindred spirit with the Parisians of 1889. It was a brooding, giant thing with little grace or purpose. Walking closer, it grew larger, standing like a tchotchke sized for King Kong’s big brother. The clusters of tourists wandered under the landmark like ants on a sugar cube lost under a picnic table.

The air was filled with the sound of men carrying dozens of more reasonably sized versions of the tower on large rings. As they shook the rings, the tiny replicas clattered noisily.

“Five for one Euro!” one of the men shouted, spotting August as he skirted the crowd, wondering what anyone would do with five tiny Eiffel towers. As he walked faster, the man pursued him, vigorously hawking his wares. August said he wasn’t interested, but as he was looking at the man, he didn’t notice the young woman in front of him which he sent toppling to the ground, her chocolate coated crepe an unfortunate and unsalvageable victim of the collision.

As she foundered on the ground, tangled in her scarf, she admonished him in French, mixed with halting English. August lent her a hand and attempted an apology in English, mixed with stilted French. When August took her hand, he was stunned by how cold her skin seemed. Her hair was short and blonde, and in need of a washing; she had a pixie’s face and wide, hypnotic eyes. Dusting herself off, her ears seemed to perk up when August offered to pay for her spilled snack.

“You pay?” she asked, sudden sweetness in her voice.

“Oui. Yes.” said August, producing a handful of Euros. Before he could ask how much, her fingers were all ready grubbing about his palm. He closed his hand and jerked it back, and she affected an innocent look that could melt the hardest of hearts. August plucked a few coins from his hand and offered them to her.

“You pay?” she asked again, pointing to her palm. “More?”

“No, no more. Enough. J’ai rein.” replied August uncomfortably.

“Yes.” she said insistently.

“No.” said August, noticing several eyes falling on him. Abruptly, he walked away. The woman made no move to follow, she just stood glaring at him until August turned his back.

“I knew I should have stayed inside.” complained August to himself as he walked back to the hotel, which was not very far away. It was when he stood before room 619 that he realized that Minerva never gave him his copy of the pass card for the room.

 To Part 2

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Otherkin (Part Twelve)

A rattling of thick chains fills River’s senses. He can feel their weight and smell their metallic scent. They are the chains that hold King Bodon, and the Old One commands His freedom. River knows that it is folly to let King Bodon through now; the sacrifices the Old One requires are not all in place. However, as River’s strength fails, he becomes desperate. He considers what has always been taboo — unleashing an Old One unfettered into the world.

Minerva’s concentration does not falter. She feels the power of the elements stream through her. River has proven himself to be much stronger than she had expected; she’s never seen a conjuror able to withstand such a prolonged assault. She suddenly feels a surge in the air. It is a familiar feeling, and she knows what it portends. She feels like her hand is being forced.

River is letting the gate between worlds fall open. Minerva has fewer and fewer options open to her; she feels like she is being left with no choice but to kill River. The temptation is there. It is the simplest solution: she kills River, the gate closes, and the world is safe.

“Do it!” she hears the voice of King Bodon in her thoughts. At first, it does not seem alien, and she is certain that the thoughts are her own. “Kill him, and you will have saved the day. It is as simple as that.”

“No.” she responds silently. She directs the Winds of Hell toward the ceiling of the cave, and debris immediately begins to rain down on River. River splits his concentration between his connection with the Other world and his shield; he thinks that Minerva’s maneuver is a ruse, and refuses to lower his magical protection. As a large rock tumbles out of place, he raises his arms to deflect it with his shield. He doesn’t see Tobias lunging towards him.

Minerva watches as her husband, still wolf-headed and coated in bloody fur, wrenches the conjuror’s arm unnaturally. The cracking of bone and snapping of sinew resonates in River’s consciousness. He lets out a painful cry as his concentration breaks like a china plate thrown against a wall. Minerva dismisses the Winds of Hell and begins a soft chant.

Her voice is sweet and angelic, slowly rising through octaves and cascading back down again. River recognizes the chant: it was recorded in a mural within the Temple of Summoning deep within the jungles of Honduras. The words hadn’t been chanted in many millennia. River couldn’t even conceive of how anyone would know the melody of the chant. In moments, he felt the connection between he and King Bodon fading. As the power of the Old One faded from his body, pain remained in its wake. Tobias crouched above River’s body, his knee pushing the conjuror’s skull against the ground.

Minerva touches her husband’s arm, slowly stroking his coarse fur.

“Let him go.” she says lightly, without command or condescension. Tobias yields immediately, leaving River quivering on the ground, battered, broken, and bleeding. Minerva reaches a hand out to River, and he winces. He thinks that it is his last moment on Earth and closes his eyes. But when nothing happens, he opens his eyes and sees Minerva sitting next to him, binding his wounds.

“Why?” asks River, “When you have the power of a god, why don‘t you just let me die?”

“Because I’m not a god.” responds Minerva, “And I couldn’t sleep knowing that I killed someone again.” River looks at her and for a moment sees her golden, glowing aura. Beyond, he sees the girl Kristabel talking with the police on a cellular phone. He shakes his shaggy head and rests it on the ground.

August awakes, prompted by Prabha’s hand on his face.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” she says, her eyes smiling. She is dressed for her shift, her hair plaited carefully, descending towards her waist. “They told me you slept in the waiting room all night. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just really tired.” August replies. He wearily stands, swaying slightly. He gropes his coat pockets, producing his cell phone. Unsure of how long he has slept, August checks the time.

“Don’t worry. Minerva came in late this morning. She and Tobias had some minor injuries, nothing that Contessa couldn’t handle. Right now, she’s checking for any residual spells; I think that they’re clean, but it is best to make sure.”

“What happened?” asks August, “Last I knew, Tobias and Minerva ran off without a word. I got caught up with the police, and one thing led to another. The first chance my body had, it just shut down.”

“The two of them tracked one of Lana’s victims to a cave on the edge of the forest, right by the Gorge. From what Minerva told me, Lana somehow talked the girl into going to a conjuror. The conjuror was supposed to change the girl into a hybrid of tiger and human, but in reality she was to be a sacrifice for King Bodon. The conjuror was almost successful, but Minerva and Tobias foiled him.” says Prabha. She notices the look of dismay on August’s face. He feels like he was left out and that he did not do enough for the investigation. Prabha takes one of his hands in both of hers, looks into his eyes, and reassures him that he did the best he could.

Minerva and Tobias arrive, talking loudly with Contessa, a nurse with limited healing powers. August sees them, and immediately notices the vitality sparking within Minerva. She seems to glow with joy when she sees August.

“If I knew you were on a date again,” she says, “I would have given you more time.” Minerva is filled with happiness; she feels like a whole person. Seeing August, seemingly happy with Dr. Kholsa, doubles her joy. However, when they all go to lunch to celebrate their shared success, she doesn’t mention that she used magic to subdue River.

Meanwhile, River lies in a locked room secreted in the bowels of the hospital. His breathing his slow and low, his eyesight is blurry. Machines ping and beep around him, standing like plastic and metal sentinels. A symbol of binding is written in blood on his forehead, preventing him from using his magic. However, he still feels power surging through him. King Bodon might not have crossed over, but something else did. That something sleeps in River’s innards, biding its time. River feels the same sensation of fear, joy, and pride that an expectant mother would feel.

He wonders how long before the fruit comes to bear, but reminds himself to be patient. As always, good things come to those that wait.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Otherkin (Part 11)

August sits quietly in the interview room at the police station. The room isn’t made for interrogation; August expects a high powered CEO to bust in through a door shouting about mergers and profit margins. His sleep deprived mind allows a smile to skulk across his lips and Detective Worthington doesn’t appreciate it one bit. The detective leans forward; his fingers interlaced in a gesture that makes him seem like a television caricature.

“Mr. Kane took a look at the dragon lady’s wounds. He’s verified that they aren’t from a werewolf; your friend should consider himself lucky that Kane’s an honest guy. It wouldn’t take much for him to say ‘he’s our man’ and get a payday. Half the guys at the scene had already made up their minds.” says Detective Worthington, his cow-like gaze matching well with his constant gum chewing. Across town, Tobias wouldn’t consider himself lucky.

He feels like someone stabbed his brain with a thick needle and swished it around his skull. The next sensation he feels is a strange mixture of cold and warmth; looking up, he sees River shielding himself with a shimmering wall of purple, sizzling energy. Despite his protection, he looks to be in poor shape. Tobias cannot imagine what is keeping the conjuror standing. It is a moment before it registers who is assaulting River.

The old power courses freely through Minerva, using her magic feels like stretching her legs after a long car ride. She called on the elements, and they heeded her as they always did; she formed them into a stream of fire, ice, wind, and stone shards. Minerva’s grandfather Adrian had called this “The Winds of Hell” and when he taught it to her; he pronounced the name with a wide smile. There is nothing to laugh about the Winds of Hell; it is a gruesome and deadly spell.

Skin tears from River’s face and hands; blight blue flames lick his legs, leaving behind mixed patches of charred black skin and frost bite. He can feel his power fading. His arms feel heavy. He wants to just lower his shield and let the cold fire wash over him but he is connected to another power that has begun to grow. He can feel King Bodon’s power growing within him.

“Can you feel me in you?” asks a raspy voice that echoes through the corridors of River’s pain wracked mind. “You know who I am, my child. Say the word, and I will be there with you.” The voice is filled with temptations and promises; no promises are made, no temptations are offered, but there is a sensation that fills River, dulling his agony. He feels cool water being poured down his throat, drizzling on his brow. There is an implication in the voice of King Bodon that if River lets him through to this world that he will be rewarded.

Mr. Kane is a stern man dressed in close fitting leather clothing, a wide brimmed hat casting a shadow over his aged, pallid face. A sawed-off shotgun is holstered at his hip like a sword; a silver revolver hangs on his opposite hip. Heaped in a corner, his coat made of werewolf pelts lies in a grim heap. He has been examining Lana’s wounds and had confirmed that they were not made by a werewolf. Lana’s eyes open and focus on the delicate silver cross that hangs from the werewolf hunter’s neck.

She tries to shift in the bed, but every movement causes a bolt of pain to tear through her body.
“I should kill you now, before you do anymore harm.” says Mr. Kane, his hand resting on his revolver. “It took a while, and some things still need to be sorted out, but it’s clear that you are at the bottom of all of this. Right now, the doctors don’t know that you are going to live. So, if you don’t tell me what I want to know, you won’t see another night.”

Lana’s face becomes fixed with a look of defiance as she silently protests. Mr. Kane’s thumb seeks out a stitched wound, and he presses roughly against the wound. Lana writhes, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Mr. Kane remains expressionless; he was trained by the Inquisition, and they taught him that bodily pain was only an illusion and that it was not to be grimaced at or enjoyed. It was a tool, and he applied it as discreetly as a sculptor applies a chisel.

“Tell me what you know about King Bodon. Tell me why you were trying to call him.” demands Mr. Kane.

“He promised to change me.” says Lana weakly. “I just wanted to be able to be normal; those bitches deserved what they got. They say that God made man in His own image. If so, then I am an abomination, unfit for His Grace, and those women were spitting in God’s eyes. So I turned to another god, one that could fulfill my desires.

“He will empower me, and He will make you pay for what you are doing.” threatens Lana. Mr. Kane’s grip on his silver revolver tightens, be he doesn’t have a chance to loose it from its holster. August barges in, holding an amulet emblazoned with the image of a long dead god.

“Where is he?” asks August, heedless of the surly man. Lana’s eyes turn to August, but before she can speak, Mr. Kane presses his finger into the wound on her leg and she screams.

“I’m sorry my boy, but she is in no condition to talk.” says Mr. Kane. August is tired, and doesn’t have his full faculties. He doesn’t notice Mr. Kane’s subtle torture. “If she calms down, I’ll have the nurse go get you.” Believing that Mr. Kane is an honorable and just man, August heeds his words. He seeks a waiting area and sits. He feels sleep roll over him like thunderclouds across a plain. His head nods a few times, and then his slips away into sleep, unable to fight against fatigue any longer.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Otherkin (Part Ten)

Kristabel sits patiently on a hard bench in the hospital’s waiting room. The bench is as hard as a rock, because, unbeknownst to her, it is actually a rock. Lana has sent this young girl to River, who is a magician that specializes in conjuration, but also knows how to craft illusions fairly well. The room where Kristabel sits is actually a cave; an old oaken table stands solidly in the center of the room. On it, an intricate symbol has been rendered using the blood of Zeeb, Detective Green, and a dozen rats. River provided the rat blood, but Lana provided the blood that would truly fuel River’s ritual. He will call King Bodon to this side of reality, and he will set the powerful demigod free.
“So, what do you want to become?” River asks Kristabel, who sees him now as a nurse rather than a hermit. If she saw his grimy countenance, she would not trust him as she trusts the beautiful nurse that stands before her; in fact, she’d likely run from him.

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought; I’ve actually been considering it for over a year. I would like to have the appearance of a Tiger.” replies Kristabel with a gleeful glimmer in her eyes. River knows what to expect next, and wishes that he could just tell her to shut-up; he has observed that they all have the same routine and truly does not want to hear it again.

“Aside from being my sign in the Chinese zodiac, I have always felt like a tiger, you know? Like there’s a proud predator inside me, just waiting to get out.” Kristabel crosses her legs, mindful of her short skirt. River believes that she is getting comfortable, and that she wants to tell him more. He imagines her telling him of her harrowing life as an outsider that has felt like they were born in the wrong body. River finds the concept vulgar; he believes that humans weren’t meant to correct what they believed were God’s mistakes.

Now, after hearing saying those words, River feels guiltless for what he is about to do. According to his metaphysical outlook, he would now simply carry out the punishment that this girl deserves for wishing to be something she was not meant to be. As the nurse, he smiles and nods, listening attentively with a comforting smile. The illusion is powerful enough to fool Kristabel, but River has not invested the strength into it that would allow an additional person to be fooled by his illusion. It breaks when a snarling werewolf barrels down on him, pinning him to the ground.

River curses himself for letting his thoughts stray away from his task on hand. He grasps the growling man-beast by its head and closes his eyes. A resonating chant causes Tobias’ skull to reverberate; his vision blurs as sound waves rattle his brain. Kristabel screeches loudly when the illusion of a sanitary hospital melts away, revealing a dank cave filled with murderous tools. She stumbles to her feet; the ground rocks beneath her, the natural reaction of a human mind to the abuse heaped on it. Bile creeps into her throat as she stumbles into Minerva’s waiting arms.

River’s concentration and focus are unbreakable; his knowledge had passed through countless ages and cultures. River can feel the proud eyes of his spiritual ancestors on him as Tobias’ warm blood begins to spill. Warm, red, and filled with vital energy, the blood courses down River’s arms and pools on the table beneath him. The conjurer’s physical strength cannot compare with the werewolf’s thick, corded muscles. River clenches his teeth and a gurgling sound emerges from between the gaps.

Tobias’ clawed hands are made to rend and destroy; he can feel the bones crunching within his hands. The wolf-spirit inside of him urges him on. It sees the unrelenting wall of River’s will and rages against it like a tornado. The recesses of Tobias’ mind are haunted by the innocents whose blood has spilled on the table. He can see their faces and hear their pleading voices. His mind burns, and his eyes will with red, murderous intent.

Two of River’s molars shatter under the intense stress. He can’t feel his arms anymore, and would see shards of bone jutting out from them if he dared take his eyes off of the werewolf. Launching a red-streaked blob of spit into Tobias’s eyes, River says the words that pass through the layers of space and time.

“Ai! Ai, na-hil. Fah-shal, shal-bal, F’rahl Bodon” shouts River “Shut this bastard down!” Tobias rears back, slapping away the conjuror’s hands. Tobias reels backwards and feels his body shrink rapidly back to its human proportions. He can still feel the wolf-spirit in him as it is closed inside of a tiny, ephemeral cage. His body convulses with anger, his eyes lose their focus.

“What the hell did you do?!” explodes Tobias, balling his hands into fists.

“Don’t screw with me, buddy.” says River, his eyes beginning to smolder with balefire. “On second thought, try me. I could use a few more bodies to keep this connection running.”

“What’s going on?” asks Kristabel in a frightened tone. “This is supposed to be a hospital.”

“I’m afraid that you’ve been misled. This is the lair of a conjuror; he has opened a portal to another world and is feeding off of the power of an entity on the other side.” responds Minerva, feeling a ball of force filling her hand.

“What do we do?!”

“You leave and don’t come back. Maybe you should also learn to appreciate what you all ready have.” says Minerva, leaving the girl outside of the cave. Like a soldier marching to the slaughter, Minerva doesn’t look back. She had made a vow, but sometimes vows lose their strength. Each step she took brought her through her life.

“You need to do what you were put on this Earth to do. If you are a witch, there’s no escaping it. Even if you never use your talent, it will pace within you like a tiger itching to be free.” said Minerva’s mother on Minerva’s first day at school. “We weren’t put here to hide our gifts.”

“Fire, ice, earth, air, and the soul; these are the powers that rule the world. Control over them is a responsibility not to be taken lightly.” instructed Adrian when Minerva was thirteen. “You are most powerful when you use your power with a light touch; those works will survive the longest and do the greatest good. However, sometimes you need to just let go.”

“Call Him!” yelled Father Tolland ten years ago. “Bring His servants to this world! You are duty bound. What you do today, you will remember always; it is the most important act of your life.”

“I promise. Never again.” she said ten years ago.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Otherkin (Part Nine)

Tobias collapses nearly five miles outside of the city after he places Minerva on the soft sand. A great dust rises as his hulking form crashes into the sand. As he begins the slow transformation back to a man, he focuses on the waves that lap against the shore in order to push himself beyond the pain. Minerva sits by him, stroking the fur as it slowly draws back into his skin. A flattened bullet tumbles from his shrinking body, leaving behind a tiny, circular scar. In the soft morning light, he looks pale; Minerva worries that he has pushed himself too far, and his dignified silence does nothing to dissuade her fears.

After a few minutes pass, he assures her that he is fine. His eyes, still the eyes of a wolf, hide his pain expertly, but his labored breathing bothers Minerva.

“I said I’ll be fine. A few bullets are not gonna do anything worse than Sebottendorff did. I’ll bounce back. I always do.” he says, his voice still guttural and animalistic.

“You didn’t need to do this by yourself. You really should have…” Minerva pauses, not wanting to feel like a nagging wife. “We’ve been working diligently on this case, and it should have been handled as lawfully as possible.”

“It was taking too long. Min, I could feel the pain of those kids. All they wanted was to be something special, and Lana took advantage; she didn’t think, and she got them killed. No law is worth keeping if she got to do it again and again as we hoped to find the invisible threads that connected her to the murders.” fully changed into the form of a man, Tobias looks fragile and small in contrast to his other, less human form.

“We have to abide by the laws; it’s not like Lana is an unregistered vampire with no rights. Even if she is guilty, you are going to have to be held accountable for what you’ve done.” says Minerva, trying not to chastise her husband too harshly.

“But it wasn’t me.” says Tobias defensively. He tightens the belt on his baggy pants; a life time of shape shifting taught him to dress in loose fitting clothes. His other self was much larger. Tobias stands and walks to the shoreline and pensively watches the water recede. “I got there around dawn, when they were closing. It took some convincing for the bouncer to let me in; they were all ready flipping chairs and clearing the place out. I saw Lana talking to a girl about Bodon. She referred to him as a great surgeon, someone able to change an Otherkin into a true Anthropo. I interrupted her pitch, and Lana got snippy.

“She told me ‘I just wanted to help her get the life she wants.’ and I did my best not to lose it then and there.” Tobias pauses and sighs softly. “Trying to keep my composure, I turned my back for a second. I heard a thud and turned to see Lana was no longer standing. Someone blindsided her; the attacker wasn’t much more than a blur. They rolled across the floor, a streak of blood trailing them. I went to pull the two apart and saw that the attacker was a cat girl.”

“Did she have white and orange fur, with short black hair?” asks Minerva, concluding that it must have been Emma.

“Yeah, she did.” responds Tobias, “Do you know her?”

“We only met briefly. She helped get Malcolm into The Haven on the night that Zeeb was murdered. I wonder if she saw something?” ponders Minerva as she half-heartedly tosses a rock into the surf.

“She must have, because she was furious. I got a hold of her, but she squirmed free easily. She was right back on top of Lana, her sharp claws tearing through Lana, leaving her looking like she went through a thresher. It stopped as swiftly as it started. I didn’t know that the police were outside; I had picked up Lana with the intent of getting her to the hospital as quickly as possible. The rest you’ve seen.”

“What happened to the girl that Lana was talking to?” asks Minerva.

“I lost her during the cat-girl’s attack. I got her scent though.” says Tobias proudly.

“Do you think you can track her? She might know something that’ll help.”

“I can. The only thing that’ll make it really tough is keeping away from the police. I’m sure they’re looking for me all ready. My guess it that they have me pegged for the assault on Lana; I should be able to clear my name, but that will take time we don’t have right now.” Tobias cups his hands and lets the sea water fill them. He wets his face, hair and chest. He hopes that the police dogs can’t track as well as he can. He also hopes that the police don’t contact a werewolf hunter.

***

Her classmates called her Fattie, but her parents called her Bettie. Through Middle School and High School, she followed the winds of fashion. In tenth grade, she dressed like a pin-up model, and in her Senior year she shaved half of her hair and dyed the rest green after getting her tongue pierced. It was all part of her path to finding who she truly was. In college, she fell for an Otherkin and embraced the lifestyle. Now, five years later, she is called Kristabel, and she is wandering through the streets on the far end of the city.

As she wound her way through the urban maze, she was astounded that she had never seen this part of the city: tall, official looking buildings tower above her, and men dressed in business suits pass her by. She feels out of place wearing a skirt that falls above her knee and a shirt cut to expose her cleavage.

She doesn’t know that she’s in an illusion, and that the urban sprawl about her is actually a small strip of protected wilderness. River watches her from afar, his eyes squinting and his mouth bent into a scowl. He presumes that she was sent by Lana, and that she is to be altered by King Bodon’s power. Lana had delivered several clay jugs to River since their last meeting, each filled with blood for drawing the circle to summon King Bodon.

River watches Kristabel wander for an hour before he assumes his role in the illusion: he will pose as a kind stranger, then a nurse, and then a surgeon. The illusion will be enough to disguise him for all three roles. By nightfall, she is at the entry to River’s cave, which seems to be an elegant downtown hospital to her glamoured eyes.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Otherkin (Part Eight)

Minerva lies on the bed, the sheets twisted and thrown back. Contorted in an attempt to get comfortable, sleep alludes her. She wonders if Tobias is okay; since his fight with Sebottendorff, he has been distant. Now, with this case, he seems frustrated, and Minerva worries that he will do something foolish. She remembers how he was when she first met him, and she remembers how she was as well.

The cathedral had been altered; the statues of saints replaced with grotesque forms that seemed to move when viewed from the corner of the eye. As a member of the Esoteric Order, it was her duty to obey Father Tolland’s wishes. She had been a superb mage; she could call lightning from the sky, alter lines of fate, and even raise the dead. However, the fallen priest needed her to do something beyond her ken; he had heard the call of the Elder Gods, and he pushed her to open their way into the world.

Staring at the ceiling, Minerva sees the shape that she called long ago roiling within its texture. The digital clock lends a sickly green glow to the spectral display. Minerva turns on the lamp on her nightstand, dismissing the apparition as easily as she wished she could on the day she called it. Closing her eyes, she says a quiet prayer for forgiveness. She found some comfort in the silence that God granted her. When she worshipped at the feet of the Elder Gods, she knew that they were pushing at the boundaries of reality like a horde prepared to rape and pillage. However, the God she prays to now gives her peace.

In the silence, her mind is freed of tension and her consciousness expands slowly. The night is mostly silent. The bodies of her neighbors sleep peacefully, their souls having wandered into the Dreamlands. A few sit sleeplessly, watching television through half-closed eyelids. She reaches out, feeling for Tobias, and she is startled because he is at The Haven. Minerva rolls off the bed and rushes to change out of her nightgown, leaving it in a silky heap as she rifles through her closet. She wriggles into a pair of jeans and slides a shirt over her head. She pauses, only for a moment, to look at a small box at the bottom of her closet. She shakes the idea out of her head; the box’s contents would be a burden, and worse, if she had them, she would use them.

Winding her way down the creaking, carpeted stairs of the apartment building, she dials Tobias’ number on her cell phone, but he doesn‘t answer. A second call goes out to August, who answers.

“Heya Minnie. What’s going on?” he says. Her call alarms him, but he hopes that she is just calling to talk.

“Tobias has gone to The Haven. I felt his anger rising as he went; I’m afraid of what he’s going to do. We need to stop him before he does anything rash.” Minerva’s voice is armored with concern. Standing on the stoop of the building where she and Tobias call home, she looks up at the last stars in the early morning sky. She knows that they would offer her no solace; the dim void of space only reminds her of what lay beyond the world’s boundaries.

“I’m only a few blocks away from you. I just dropped off Malcolm, and I’ll be there in a minute.” August wants to say something reassuring, but he does not want to say the wrong thing. He does not want to tell her that everything will be fine, because it may not be. Instead, he ends the call and concentrates on driving.

Minerva sees the station wagon bob along as it rattles down the pothole lined street; it looks like a drunken turtle as it ambles down the road. Her feet carry her swiftly down the stairs with the grace and speed suited to the wind. The car lurches forward as it comes to an abrupt stop before her; she reaches out a hand and opens the door. She throws herself into the car, slams the door behind her, and casually glances at August.

He looks haggard; the past few days have taken a toll on him. His hair, while usually a tangled bush, looks doubly unkempt. Dark circles stand out prominently under his eyes, accentuated by his pale skin. He drives in silence, cautiously performing rolling stops at lonely intersections. Minerva nervously dials Tobias again, and he still does not pick up. The radio fills the air with a droning pop song about love that doesn’t bring her any comfort. She crosses her fingers, hoping that August and she will arrive in time. Unconsciously, she crosses her big toe across the toe next to it. When she notices, she also notices that she neglected putting shoes on.

August struggles to stay focused on driving; his mind wanders as his body drives the car mechanically. He nearly misses an exit on the highway, shakes his head in dismay, and turns up the music. He considers asking Minerva to drive, but he knows that she is in no shape. A car blares its horn as August nearly drifts out of his lane; he knows that he is in no condition to drive, and he is in even worse condition to tangle with the forces of evil.

Flashing blue and red lights streak across the façade of The Haven; six police cars huddle around the building like baby skunks suckling on their mother. August parks near their perimeter and scans the street, looking for Detective Green’s car. Minerva pulls free of the seatbelt and rushes out of the car before August manages to put it in park. Her feet slap against the pavement as she runs headlong into an officer that blocks her way, knocking him off his feet.

“Stop that crazy bitch!” he yells, drawing his pistol from its holster. Two other officers swarm over her, pulling her to the ground. Shots are fired as a slavering, wolf-headed man swats them away from her. August recognizes the werewolf instantly. It is Tobias; his silver and black coat is coated thickly with blood, his pointed white teeth have scraps of flesh hanging from between them. As bullets tear into his body, his blood spatters against the sidewalk.

Defiant of the shouting police men, he stands, cradling Minerva in his arms. Someone shouts to cease fire, but it is too late; the werewolf has leaped, impossibly, out of range. August tries to find out what transpired, but many of the officers are shaken and traumatized. He manages to discover that Tobias attacked Lana, leaving her in a bloody heap on The Haven’s doorstep.