Blood Trail

Usually, when he awoke in a place other than his carefully shielded sanctuary, there would be a moment of near panic while memory fought to reestablish itself. Tonight, he knew even before full consciousness returned, for the unmistakable scent of the wer saturated his tiny chamber.

He stretched and lay still for a moment, senses extended until they touched Vicki's life. The hunger rose to pulse in time with her heartbeat. He would feed tonight.

As Henry made his way downstairs, Mozart's Don Giovanni filled the old farmhouse and, he suspected, a good portion of the surrounding countryside. Stereo systems had been one piece of human culture the wer had embraced wholeheartedly. Henry winced as a descant Mozart could never have imagined soared up and over and around the recorded soprano.

Oh, well, I suppose it could be worse. He braced himself against Shadow's enthusiastic welcome. It could be New Kids on the Block.

With one hand fondling Shadow's ears, Henry paused on the kitchen's threshold, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the light. He half expected to see Vicki seated at the table, but the room was empty save for Donald who sat, feet up, watching Jennifer and Marie work their way through a sink full of dishes. Seconds later, this simple domestic scene shattered as Shadow bounded forward and shoved a cold, wet nose against the back of Marie's bare legs. A plate hit the floor, bounced, and lay there forgotten as both twins chased their younger brother out of the house.

"Evening," Donald grunted as Henry bent to pick up the plate. "Don't suppose you know any opera singers?"

He'd known an opera dancer once, almost two hundred years ago, but that wasn't quite the same thing. "Sorry, no. Why?"

"Thought if you knew one, you could bring her out." Donald waved an arm in the air, the gesture encompassing Don Giovanni. "Be nice to hear this stuff live for a change."

Henry was about to point out that Toronto wasn't that long a drive and that the Royal Canadian Opera Company, while not Vienna, definitely had its moments when he had a sudden vision of wer at the theater and blanched. "Where is everyone?" he asked instead.

"Tag and Sky... "

Stuart and Nadine, Henry translated.

"... are out hunting, in spite of protests from your Ms. Nelson. You saw the exit of the terrible trio. Colin is at work, and my other two are... "

The descant rose above the tenor solo, wrapping the notes almost sideways to each other.

"... in the living room with their heads between the speakers. They got a couple of old recordings from the doctor today, obscure companies that aren't out yet on CD." He scratched at the mat of red hair on his chest and frowned. "Personally, I think the tenor is a little sharp."

"Why the doctor? Was someone hurt?"

"Everyone is fine." Vicki's voice came from behind him, from the door leading to the bathroom, and her tone added, so far. Henry turned as she continued. "I needed to talk to him to make sure he wasn't the killer."

"And are you sure."

"Quite. It's not him, it's not Colin's partner, and it's not the game warden. Unfortunately, at least another thirty-seven people regularly go wandering through the woods with high-powered binoculars and it could be any one of them. Not to mention an unknown number of nature photographers whose names I don't have yet."

Henry raised a brow and smiled. "Sounds like you've had a productive day."

Vicki snorted. "I've had a day," she amended, shoving her glasses back up her nose. "I'm not really any closer to finding out who did do it. And Stuart and Nadine have gone for a little nocturnal hike." Her opinion of that dripped off her voice.

"They're hunters, they... "

"They can hunt at the local supermarket until this is over," she snapped. "Like the rest of us."

"They aren't like the rest of us," Henry reminded her. "You can't judge them by... "

"Leave it! I've had just about as much of that observation as I can take." She sighed at his expression and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little frustrated by illogical behavior. Can we go somewhere and talk?"

"Outside?"

She scowled. "It's dark, I won't be able to see, and besides, outside is crawling with bugs. What about my room?"

"What about mine?" While it wasn't large, his was the only room in the house with a door that could be bolted from the inside. If they began in his room, they wouldn't have to move later when it came time to feed. He felt her blood calling him and the plate he still held snapped between his hands. "Oh, hell. Donald, I'm sorry."

Donald only shrugged, a suspiciously knowing smile lurking around the edges of his mouth. "Don't worry about it. We're kinda hard on dishes around here anyway."

Giving thanks that his nature no longer allowed him to blush - his fair Tudor coloring had been the curse of his short life - Henry dropped both halves of the plate in the garbage and turned once again to Vicki. For a change, he found her expression unreadable. "Shall we?" he asked, taking refuge in formality.

Scalloped glass light fixtures illuminated the stairs and the upper hall in the original section of the house but the wer, who could see almost as well in the dark, hadn't bothered extending them down the hall of the addition.

Vicki swore and stopped dead at the edge of the twilight. "Maybe my room is better after all... "

Henry tucked her arm in his and pulled her gently forward. "It isn't far," he said soothingly.

"Don't patronize me," she snapped. "I'm going blind, not senile."

But her fingers tightened against the bend of his elbow and Henry could feel the tension in her step.

The bare forty watt bulb hanging from the center of Henry's closet - it was gross exaggeration to call it a room - threw enough light for Vicki to see Henry's face but the piled junk held shadows layered upon shadows. Dragging his pillow up behind her back, she leaned against the far wall and watched him bolt the door.

He could scent the beginning of her desire.

Slowly, he turned, hunger rising.

"So." She kicked off her sandals and scratched at a mosquito bite. Nothing like taking care of one itch to distract you from another. "Sit down and I'll tell you about my day."

He sat. There wasn't much else he could do.

"... and that's the suspect list as it stands right now."

"You really believe it could be one of these birdwatchers?"

"Or the photographers. Hell, I'd rather it was Carl Biehn or his slimy nephew than some lone hiker we'll never track down."

"You don't think it was Mr. Biehn."

"Get real. He's a nice guy." She sighed. "Course, I have been wrong before and I haven't taken him off the list. Mind you, at this point, I've only got three people who I have taken off the list."

"I don't believe that." Henry picked up the bare leg stretched out on the cot beside him and began kneading her calf, digging his thumbs deep behind the muscle and then rolling it between his palms.

After a half-hearted attempt to drag it out of his grip, Vicki left her leg where it was. "Believe what?"

"That you've been wrong before."

"Yeah. Well. It happens... " She had to swallow before she could answer. "... occasionally."

Henry knew he could have her now, she'd made her point and would be willing. More than willing - the tiny room all but vibrated to the pounding of her heart. He wrapped iron control around his hunger.

"So." Slapping her lightly on the bottom of the foot, he laid her leg aside. "What did you want me to do?"

Her eyes snapped open and her brows drew down.

Henry waited, his expression one of polite interest.

For a heartbeat, Vicki teetered between anger and amusement. Amusement won and she grinned.

"You can stake out that tree I found. What wind there is - and there's bugger all air moving that I can tell - has changed again so that it's off the fields. If someone shows up with a .30 caliber rifle waiting for a target, grab him and it's case over."

"All right." He began to rise, but she swung her leg across his lap, barring his way.

"Hold it right there... and don't raise that eyebrow at me. We keep this up much longer and we'll end up ripping each other's clothes off in the kitchen and embarrassing ourselves. I don't want that to happen, this is one of my favorite T-shirts. Now that we've both exhibited control over our baser natures, what do you say we call it a draw and get on with things?"

"Fair enough." He held out his hand, intending to scoop her up into his arms in the best romantic tradition, but instead found himself yanked down hard against her mouth.

They didn't rip the T-shirt, but they did stretch it a little.

At the end, he took control and when his teeth broke through the skin of her wrist, she cried out, digging the fingers of her free hand hard into his shoulder. She kept moving as he drank and only stilled as he licked the wound clean, the coagulant in his saliva sealing the tiny puncture.

"That was... amazing," she sighed a moment later, her breath warm against the top of his head.

"Thank you." The salty smell of her skin filled nose and throat and lungs. "I was pretty amazed myself." He squirmed around until he could see her face. "Tell me, do you always make love with your glasses on?"

She grinned and pushed them higher with an unsteady finger. "Only the first time. After that, I can rely on memory. And for some things, I have a phenomenal memory." She moved, just to feel him move against her. "Are you always this cool?"

"Lower body temperature. Do you mind?"

"It's August and we're in a closet with no ventilation. What do you think?" Her fingernails traced intricate patterns along his spine. "You feel great. This feels great."

"Feels great," he echoed, "but I've got to go." He said it gently, as he sat up, one hand trailing along the slick length of her body. "The nights are short and if you want me to solve this case for you... "

"For the wer," she corrected, yawning, too mellow to react to his smart-ass comment. "Sure, go ahead, eat and run." She snatched her foot back, away from his grab, and watched him dress. "When can we do this again?"

"Not for a while. The blood has to renew."

"You couldn't have taken more than a few mouthfuls; how long is a while?"

Tucking his shirt into his jeans, he leaned down and kissed her, sucking for a moment on her lower lip. "We have lots of time."

"Maybe you do," she muttered, "but I'll be dead in sixty, seventy years tops and I don't want to waste any more of it."

Police Constable Barry Wu glanced over at his partner and wished he knew what the hell was going on. Whatever had been bothering Colin for the last few weeks, getting under his skin and twisting, bothered him no longer - which was great, a depressed werewolf was not the most pleasant companion in a patrol car - but Colin still wouldn't say what the problem had been and Barry didn't like that. If Colin was in some kind of trouble, he should be the first to know. They were partners, for Chrissakes. "So." He peered up and down Fellner Avenue as they crossed the intersection; it looked quiet. "Everything's all right now?"

Colin sighed. "Like I told you at the beginning of shift, we're working on it. I'll tell you what's happening the moment Stuart releases me."

Stuart had proven damned elusive this afternoon, but Colin had every intention of tracking the pack leader down the moment he got off shift and laying Vicki's conclusions before him. Now that loyalties no longer pulled him in two directions, the sooner he could talk this whole thing over with Barry the better.

"But it's about me?" Barry prodded.

"No, I told you, not anymore."

"But it was about me?"

"Listen, can you just trust me until tomorrow night? I swear, I'll be able to tell you everything by then."

"Tomorrow night?"

"Yeah."

Barry maneuvered the car around the corner onto Ashland Avenue; on hot summer nights, gangs of kids often hung out around the Arena and the police liked to keep an eye on the place. "All right, sheep-fucker. I can wait."

Colin's lip curled. "You're lucky you're driving."

Barry grinned. "I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't been... "

Henry stood for a moment, staring into the woods, one hand resting on the top rail of the cedar fence. In high summer, the woods seethed with life, with hunters and hunted, far too many for him to separate one from the other. He sensed no human lives near but couldn't be sure if that was due to their absence or to the masking of the smaller lives around them.

Had it been a mistake to feed? he wondered. Hunger would have increased his sensitivity to the presence of blood. Mind you, he admitted, smiling at the memory of Vicki moving beneath him, in the end, I don't think I had much choice.

In the past, when he stayed with the wer for longer than three days and it became imperative to feed, he'd drive into London for a couple of hours and hire a prostitute. He didn't mind paying occasionally - spread over time it was still cheaper than buying groceries. Upon a moment's reflection, he decided not to share that thought with Vicki.

The fence was barely a barrier, and a moment later he moved shadow silent through the trees, following the trail Vicki had laid that morning. A small creature crossed his path, then, catching the scent of so large a predator, froze, its heart beating like a trip-hammer. He heard it scurry away once he'd passed and wished it Godspeed; the odds were good it wouldn't survive the night. The wer had come this way, probably on the hunt, but not lately as the spoor had faded to hints and that only where the forest floor retained some dampness.

He ducked under a branch and plucked free a single golden-brown hair from the twig that had captured it.

Vicki hadn't done too well in the woods, the evidence of that was all around him - a faint signature of her blood marked much of the trail. Coming as she did from a world of steel and glass, he supposed this was hardly surprising. Tucking the hair safely in his pocket, he continued along her path, allowing his mind to wander with her memory while he walked.

He hadn't intended to come out tonight, but he hadn't been able to sleep so he took that as a sign. Settling back in the tree, drawing in deep breaths of the warm, pine-scented air, he brushed away a rivulet of sweat and squinted at the sky. The stars were a hundred thousand gleaming jewels and the waning moon basked in reflected glory. There would be light enough.

Below and behind him, some large creature blundered about. Perhaps a cow or sheep had wandered into the conservation area from one of the nearby farms. It didn't matter. Now that the wind had changed, his interest lay in the pale rectangles of field beyond the woods. They would come to check the sheep and he would be waiting.

With the barrel of his rifle braced against a convenient limb, he laid his cheek gently against the butt and flicked on the receiver of his night scope. He'd ordered the simplest infrared scope from a Bushnell catalog back in early summer, when he'd first known what he had to do. It had cost him more than he could really afford, but the money had been well spent. Nor did he begrudge the continuing outlay for lithium batteries, replaced before every mission. A man is only as good as his equipment - his old sergeant had made sure every man he commanded remembered that.

Under the cross hairs, the ghostly outline of trees began to show, punctuated here and there by the dim red heat signatures of small animals. Without bothering to turn on the emitter, he scanned both fields, registering nothing more than the sheep. The sheep were innocent. They had no control over the masters they had. Then he came back to the trees.

They hunted the conservation area on occasion. He knew it. Perhaps tonight they would hunt and he would...

He frowned at a flash of red between two trees. Showing too dim for the size, he had no idea what it might be. Moving slowly, silently, he flicked on the emitter, playing the beam of infrared light over the area. Although the naked eye could see no difference, his scope brightened as if he'd turned on a high-powered red flashlight.

The creature he'd scanned should be...

With an effort, Henry brought himself back to the woods. It was infinitely pleasanter replaying the earlier part of the night, but he knew he must be getting close to the pine. He lifted his head to scan the treetops...

... and snapped it back snarling as a beam of red light raked across his eyes.

"Holy shit!" Mark Williams raised his uncle's shotgun in trembling hands. He didn't know what that was. He didn't care. He'd had nightmares about things like that, the kind of nightmares that jerked you awake sweating, scrabbling for the light, desperately trying to push back the darkness.

It didn't look human. It didn't look safe.

He pulled the trigger.

The buckshot had spread enough that it did little real damage when it hit, tracing a pattern of holes down the outside of his right hip and thigh. The light had been an annoyance. This was an attack.

Henry had warned Vicki once that his kind held the beast much closer to the surface than mortals did. As blood began to slowly seep into his jeans, he let it loose.

A heartbeat later, a slug hit him in high in the left shoulder and spun him around, lifting him off his feet. His skull cracked hard against the trunk of a tree and he dropped, barely conscious, to the ground.

Through the pain, through the throbbing of his life in his ears, he thought he heard voices, men's voices, one almost hysterical, the other low and intense. He knew it was important that he listen, that he learn, but he couldn't seem to focus. The pain he could deal with. He'd been shot before and knew that even now his body had begun to mend. He fought against the waves of gray, trying to hold onto self, but it was like trying to hold sand that kept seeping out of his grasp.

The voices were gone; where, he had no idea.

Then a hand reached down and turned him gently over. A voice he knew said quietly, "We've got to get him back to the house."

"I don't think he can walk. Go for Donald, he's too heavy for you to carry."

Stuart. He recognized Stuart. That gave him a place to start from. By the time Nadine returned with Donald, he'd managed to grab onto his scattered wits and force them into a semblance of reason. His head felt eggshell fragile, but if he held it carefully, very carefully, he could keep the world from twisting too far off center.

In spite of rough handling, Henry's head had almost cleared by the time the wer got him to the house. A number of gray patches continued to drift up from the swelling at the base of his skull but, essentially, he was back.

He could see Vicki waiting on the porch, peering anxiously into the darkness. She looked softer and more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her. As Stuart and Donald carried him into her reach, she stretched out a hand and lightly touched his cheek.

Her brows snapped down. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Of course I followed you!" Mark Williams gulped a little more whiskey from the water glass in his hand.

"I get back a little early from a friendly poker game and see my aged uncle sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night carrying... " He waved a hand at the rifle now lying in pieces on the kitchen table. "... that, off to do God knows what... "

"God knows," Carl interrupted quietly, working the oily rag along the barrel.

"Fine. God knows. But I don't. And," he slammed the now empty glass down on the table, "after what I just went through, I think I deserve an explanation."

Carl stared up at his nephew for a moment, then sighed. "Sit down."

"Okay. I'll sit." Mark threw himself into a kitchen chair. "You talk. What the hell were you planning on hunting out there and what was that thing that attacked me?"

Ever since the Lord had shown him what lived on the Heerkens farm and had let him know where his duty lay, Carl Biehn had been afraid he wouldn't be strong enough. He was an old man, older than he looked, and the Lord had given one old man a terrible burden to carry. Mark was not who he would have chosen to help him bear his cross, but the Lord worked in mysterious ways and apparently Mark had also been chosen. It made a certain sense he supposed, the boy was his only living relative, and by pulling that trigger tonight he'd proven he had the strength to enter the fray. Perhaps his own sins would be washed away in the blood of the ungodly he was to help destroy.

Carl made his decision and took the three rounds he'd prepared from his vest pocket, standing them on the table. They gleamed in the overhead light like tiny missiles.

"Holy shit! That's silver!"

"Yes."

Mark stroked one finger down the bullet head and laughed a bit hysterically. "You trying to tell me you're hunting werewolves?"

"Yes."

In the sudden silence the ticking of the kitchen clock sounded unnaturally loud.

The old boy's flipped. He's right out of his tiny little mind. Werewolves. He's crazy.

And then Carl started to talk. Of how he'd been out bird-watching in late spring and seen the first change by accident. How he'd seen the others by design. How he'd recognized a creature of the devil. Realized that this was why none of the cursed family ever entered God's house. Realized they were not God's creatures but Satan's, sent by the Great Deceiver to spread darkness on the earth. Gradually came to know what he must do.

They must be sent back to hell. And they must be sent back in the form that was not a mockery of God's image. It must be done in secret under the cover of the night lest the Lord of Lies try to stop him.

To his surprise, Mark found himself believing. It was the weirdest goddamned story he'd ever heard, but it had the undeniable ring of truth.

"Werewolves," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Creatures of the evil one," his uncle agreed.

"And you're killing them?" And this is the guy who thinks eating a burger is a sin.

"I am sending them back to their dark master. Demons cannot actually be killed."

"But you're sending them with silver bullets?"

"Silver is the Lord's metal as it paid for the life of His son."

"Jesus H. Christ."

"Do not blaspheme."

Mark looked down at the rifle, now cleaned and reassembled, then back up at his uncle. The man was a moral nut case, something that had to be remembered. A well armed moral nut case and one hell of a shot, "Yeah. Sorry. So, uh, what about that thing in the woods tonight?"

"I don't know." Carl laced his fingers together and sighed. "I shot him to protect you."

Sweat beaded Mark's forehead as he remembered and his heart began to race. For an instant, he thought he might lose control of his bladder again. He'd looked at Death tonight and he'd never forget the feel of icy fingers closing around his life, no matter how badly he might want to. That experience, primal and terrifying, made it easier to believe the rest. "Maybe," he offered, swallowing heavily, "it was Old Nick himself, come to check on his charges."

Carl nodded slowly. "Perhaps, but if so, I will leave him to the Lord."

Easy far you to say. Mark wiped damp hands on his jeans. It wasn't going for your throat. "What about the woman?"

"The woman?"

"Yeah, that Nelson babe who wandered by this morning."

"An innocent bystander, nothing more. You will leave her out of this."

But Mark remembered the bits of pine stuck to a Blue Jays T-shirt and wasn't so sure.

"A .30 caliber rifle at that range should've blown your fucking shoulder off." Vicki secured the end of the gauze and frowned down at her handiwork. "There's no way your collarbone should've been able to deflect that shot."

Henry smiled at the incredulous disbelief in Vicki's voice. The pain had fallen to tolerable levels and the damage had been much less than he'd feared. Theoretically, he should be able to regenerate a lost limb but he had no real desire to test the theory. A broken collarbone and a chunk of flesh blown off the top of his shoulder, he could live with. "My kind has stronger bones than yours," he told her, attempting to flex the arm. Vicki made a fist and looked ready to use it, so he stopped.

"Stronger?" She snorted. "Fucking titanium."

"Not quite. Titanium wouldn't have broken." He winced as Donald dug yet another piece of buckshot out of his thigh then turned back to Vicki. "Do you realize your language deteriorates when you're worried?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You've done more swearing in the last hour than you have since we've met."

"Yeah?" She snapped the first aid kit shut with unnecessary force. "Well, I've had more to swear about, haven't I? I don't understand how this happened. You're supposed to be so great at night. What were you thinking about?"

He didn't see any reason to lie. "You. Us. What happened earlier."

Vicki's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that just like a man. Four hundred and fifty fucking years old and he's still thinking with his balls."

"That's the lot." Donald straightened and threw the tweezers into the bowl with the shot. "Few hours and you'll be good as new. Some of the shallower holes are healing already."

"You're pretty good at that," Henry noted, elevating his leg a little to get a better look.

Donald shrugged. "Used to get lots of practice twenty, thirty years ago. Folks were faster on the trigger back then and fur only deflects so much. Used to have a pattern much like that on my butt." Twisting around in a way no human spine could handle, he studied the body part in question. "Seems to be gone now." He picked up the bowl and headed for the door. "If you were one of us, I'd suggest you change a few times to clear out any possible infection. Or lick it. As it is... "He shrugged and was gone.

"I wasn't even going to ask!" Henry protested as Vicki glared down at him.

"Good thing." Lick buckshot holes indeed! She couldn't hold the glare. It became a grin, then a worried frown as a new problem occurred to her. "Will you need to feed again?"

He shook his head, regretting it almost immediately. "Tomorrow maybe, not tonight."

"After the attack by the demon, you needed to feed right away."

"Trust me, I was in much worse shape after the attack by the demon."

Vicki rested her hand lightly on the flat expanse of Henry's stomach, just where the line of red-gold hair began below his navel. The motion was proprietary without being overtly sexual. "Can you feed tomorrow?"

He covered her hand with his good one. "We'll work something out."

She nodded, if not satisfied at least willing to wait. The desire she felt was embarrassing and she hoped like hell Henry's vampiric vibrations were responsible. Overactive hormones were the last thing she needed. "You know, I'm amazed you've managed to survive for four centuries; first the demon, now this, and in only five short months."

"You may not believe this, but until I met you I lived the staid, boring life of a romance writer."

Both her brows rose and her glasses slipped to the end of her nose.

"Oh, all right," he admitted, "the night life was a bit better, but these sorts of things never happened to me."

"Never?"

He grinned as he remembered, although the event had been far from funny at the time. A woman - all right, his preoccupation with a woman - had been responsible for that disaster too. "Well, hardly ever... "

His right knee felt twice its normal size and barely held his weight. A lucky blow from the blacksmith's iron hammer had slammed into the side of the joint.

A man would never have walked again. Henry Fitzroy, vampire, had gotten up and run but the damage and the pain held him to a mortal's pace.

He could hear the dogs. They were close.

He should have sensed the trap. Heard or smelled or seen the men waiting in the dark corners of the room. But he'd been so anxious to feed, so anxious to lose himself in the arms of his little Mila, that he never suspected a thing. Never suspected that little Mila, of the sweet smile and soft thighs and hot blood, had confessed her sin to the priest and he had roused the village.

The presence of a vampire outweighed the sanctity of the confessional.

The dogs were gaining. Behind them came the torches and the stakes and the final death.

Had they not placed their faith so strongly in the cross, they would have had him. Only the blacksmith had presence of mind enough to swing as he broke through their circle and made for the door.

His leg twisted and white fire shot through his entire body. The sound of his own blood loud in his ears, he clutched desperately at a tree, fighting to stay upright. He couldn't go on. He couldn't stop.

It hurts. Oh, God, how it hurts.

The dogs were closer.

He couldn't die like this, not after barely a hundred years; hunted down like a beast in the night. His ribs pressed tight around his straining heart, as though they already felt the final pressure of the stake.

The dogs were almost on him. The night had narrowed to their baying and the pain.

He didn't see the cliff.

He missed the rocks at the water's edge by little more than the width of a prayer, then the world turned over and around and he almost drowned before he managed to claw his way back to the air. Unable to fight the current, he gave himself over to it. Fortunately, it was spring and the river ran deep - most of its teeth were safely submerged under three or four feet of water. Most. Not all.

Just before dawn, Henry dragged himself up onto the shore and wedged his battered body as deep as it would go into a narrow stone cleft. It was damp and cold, but the sun would not reach so far and, for the moment, he was safe.

It had never meant more.

"No, sir. Never any trouble from Mr. Fitzroy." Greg squared his shoulders and looked the police officer in the eye. "He's a good tenant."

"No wild parties?" Celluci asked. "Complaints from the neighbors?"

"No sir. Not at all. Mr. Fitzroy is a very quiet gentleman."

"He has no company at all?"

"Oh, he has company, sir." The old security guard's ears burned. "There's a young woman... "

"Tall, short blonde hair, glasses? Early thirties?"

Greg winced a little at the tone. "Yes, sir."

"We know her. Go on."

"Well, there's a boy, late teens. He's kind of scruffy, tough like. Not the kind you'd expect Mr. Fitzroy to have over."

The boy's presence wasn't much of a surprise. It only added another piece to the puzzle, bringing it a step close to completion. "Is that all?"

"All the company, sir, but... "

Celluci pounced on the hesitation. "But what?"

"Well, it's just you never see Mr. Fitzroy in the daytime sir. And when you ask him questions about his past... "

Yes, I've a few questions myself about his past. In fact, Fitzroy had turned out to be more questions than answers. Celluci didn't like that in a man and he liked it even less now that he was beginning to see how he could fill in the blanks.

If Henry Fitzroy thought he could hide what he was, he was due for a nasty surprise.

The old man was asleep; Mark could hear him snoring through the wall that separated their bedrooms.

"The sleep of the just," he murmured, linking his hands behind his head and staring at a watermark on the ceiling. Although he'd agreed to help in his uncle's holy war - And that's one elderly gentleman who's a few pickles short of a barrel. - nothing had actually been said about what this entailed. Whether or not the werewolves were creatures of the devil was a moot point as far as he was concerned - more importantly, they were creatures apparently outside the law.

He was a businessman; there had to be a way he could make a profit out of that.

If he could capture one of them, he knew a number of people who would be more than willing to purchase such a curiosity. Unfortunately, that idea came with an obvious problem. The creature could just refuse to change - and they appeared to have complete control over the process - ruining any credibility he might have. And in sales, credibility was everything.

"All right, if I can't make a buck out of them live... "

He smiled.

Werewolves.

Wolves.

Dead wolves meant pelts. Take the head as well and there'd be a dandy rug.

People were always willing to pay for the unique and the unusual.