7 - Fragmented Plans

I wake with a plan of action and a cramp in my arm, after a night curled up on the back seat of my stolen car.

As I sit up and stretch, idly surveying the car park and the woods as I come awake properly, I run through the fragments of my plan.

The first step to taking on a pack of werewolves is to map out their land. Finding out their routes, their schedules, and their numbers must wait until I know exactly where they feel most comfortable.

Werewolves rarely venture out of their land — especially if they're under siege from a rival pack edging closer and closer — except to wrestle back their stolen territory. Their home is where they are most at ease. Most vulnerable.

The only way to discern where exactly these territory lines are is to ask the right people the right questions. If the town is a war zone between rival packs, and if the citizens are looking the other way, they'll know exactly where it's safe and where it isn't.

I could use the rivalry to my advantage. Now I know their calling card — the Othala — I can start picking off the weaker wolves and play it off as their enemies. Dwindle their numbers, get them panicking and acting irrationally and making mistakes.

With werewolves wandering the streets without consequence, I deem it safer to hide my holster of throwing blades beneath my hoodie instead of leaving them useless in my car. The belt pressing against my waist is a welcome, familiar sensation. One that lends me some semblance of comfort and a promise of defence, should I need it.

When it comes to asking townsfolk about any suspicious activity, I believe I know just the person to start with.

As I walk towards the bookstore, I pass the alleyway where I found the dead body and where those werewolves gathered to start sniffing blood. Now, it's sectioned off with police tape, but the blood is all gone and no one seems to even glance in its general direction. As though nothing happened. Strange.

I find Laura amongst the aisles of overflowing books in her store, wrestling with a haphazard pile in her arms.

"Hello, again," she greets warmly, peeking at me over the top of her tower of books.

"Need any help?" I ask.

"Please." She practically shoves the books into my waiting arms. "Seb's actually here today, believe it or not. He's in the back but I'm sure we can find something for you to do."

"Oh, I'm actually not here to work today," I admit, offering her an apologetic smile. "I heard about the body they found— it's awful."

Laura makes a small, noncommittal noise and busies herself stocking shelves. "Body? What body?"

I frown lightly, resting my shoulder against a nearby bookcase. "The one they found in the alley. Everyone's talking about it at the motel— well, everyone's whispering about it."

"What are they saying?" she asks, glancing at me sharply as intrigue lights up behind her eyes. Laura, it seems, has a penchant for gossip, and it's something I can exploit.

"That there's a gang war, or something. They say it's the third one this week. Isn't it on the news?"

"I, uh... haven't had a chance to look," she dismisses, turning abruptly back to her work. "Poor guy."

"So there are gangs? Should I be worried? I don't want to be mugged in the street— or killed, either," I rant, putting a hint of melodrama into my tone. As the words spill out of my mouth, I realise I never mentioned the body being a guy. Suspicion prickles at the edges of my focus.

"Listen, I'm sure it was just an accident. There are no gangs," Laura insists, retreating around another aisle and, I muse, definitely avoiding my gaze. "Not that I know of, anyway."

"How can it be an accident if it's happened three times already?" I continue, following after her. "Surely they've been in the news? And why is no one talking about it? What sort of town is this—?"

Laura turns sharply to face me, and I catch a startling glimmer of gold in her eyes— there and gone. At once, my defences are up and I take an abrupt step backwards. A werewolf. Right under my fucking nose.

"You want my advice?" she asks, her nostrils flaring, anger rising like a cresting wave over her features. "Stop asking questions. Believe me, you don't want to know the answers. Just— get a job and keep your head down, or move somewhere else. Crescent Valley isn't a place for questions."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand, eager to goad or force more out of her— whichever works faster. "Someone died last night and you're telling me to look the other way? What if it happens again?"

"Keep asking questions and it might end up being you," a voice from behind me cuts in— sharp and brutal, like a punch to the gut.

I whip around and find a guy crossing his arms and looking ruffled— Seb, if I have to guess. He looks like Laura, with the dark hair and the flickering eyes and the overcast expression. My nerves go razor-edged as discomfort lances through me. Having someone sneak up on me isn't at all pleasant, and especially when they're most likely a werewolf.

I glare at him, advancing a step. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

He meets my advance with a scowl. "Why do you smell like silver?"

With a great effort, I douse any trace of alarm rising on my features and replace it with humoured incredulity. The belt at my waist has never felt so reassuring yet so damning. "Why are you smelling me?"

"Seb," Laura cuts in, her voice like the crack of a whip, as she steps between us. "Leave him alone. He's new in town, he doesn't know what he's on about."

Seb narrows his eyes at me, sizing me up and looking moments from exploding. I watch as, with an effort, he tempers the fire of aggression and pulls an indifferent mask over his features. It doesn't work— there's still a dangerous flame behind his sharp gaze. "I want you to leave."

"Fine," I mutter. If I push any further, he's going to snap.

As I retreat behind the aisles of books and make a hasty exit, I hear Laura hiss something along the lines of, "What the fuck did you do, last night?"

Seb merely grunts an answer of, "Let me handle it."

Hmm.

The rest of my day is spent going from store to store asking uncomfortable questions. Some people seem to genuinely have no clue what I'm on about and look at me strangely, either incredible at lying or at a complete loss. Others, though, change the subject with surprising swiftness and warn me not to get too involved— though at least their eyes don't start glowing.

When a werewolf is in their human form, it's nearly impossible to tell them apart from regular people— except, of course, for the eyes. When they feel a certain emotion strongly, or pick up a scent they don't like, or if something catches them off-guard, their focus slips and their animalistic nature shines through. Quite literally. It's an unnerving trait, and I find myself studying everyone I speak to closely for any flicker of gold.

It makes my job incredibly difficult, if werewolves are not only prowling the streets but working behind counters and bars. Even still, asking questions could get them panicking and making mistakes, and if I'm going to tackle two packs on my own, I need them to make a few crucial mistakes.

I wonder, as I leave the latest in a long chain of stores with more questions than before, whether I can run from my family's silver-lined legacy, or whether it will always just lurk at my peripheral. Instincts ready and waiting for me to fall back on.

If I shove aside all the chaos and horror of losing Esme and killing Myles and running, I'm merely on another mission. I'm just performing some reconnaissance on my own, and I'll head back to the den to update my family on what I've learnt and how we can use it against our chosen targets. A few weeks ago, that was my life.

Now? Perhaps I'll always be a Ferreus hunter at heart, and there's no way to escape it. I told myself their attention would snag on a town with a werewolf infestation— but I've done the exact same thing. I could've driven straight through this town and left its mess behind, but I didn't. I claimed it, and I made it my sworn duty to rid the place of werewolves— just like my family would've done.

Their roots are tangled in my veins deeper than I ever thought possible.

One last job.

With this in mind, and with dusk descending over the skyline in swathes of amber and gold, I call it a day and start heading back to my car. A cool breeze stirs around me, tousling my hair and biting at my exposed skin, so I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket.

Mundane thoughts creep forwards. I haven't eaten all day, but I figure I can go a little longer to help save some money. For now, the dwindling fuel isn't a problem, but I can't stay in this car park forever.

My footsteps echo and bounce across the empty street, and even as my thoughts drift from one problem to the next, I catch the exact moment something sounds off.

The scuff of a shoe that is not mine. An echoing footstep that doesn't quite match my pace. It has my hackles raising, so to speak.

But I don't look over my shoulder to check for anyone following me. That would be too obvious.

So I turn down an alley, meaning to get away from any prying eyes and face my stalker head-on. Catch them unsuspecting. I take two throwing blades from my belt, savouring the reassuring weight of them in my palms, and hide my hands in my hoodie pocket once more.

The alley is a dead end, but I stroll towards the brick wall anyway and rest casually against it as I wait for the footsteps to catch up. There's more now, and they're walking hurriedly.

It seems as though asking questions has brought the hounds right to me— but, I muse, at least they won't hurt an unsuspecting human tonight.

And at least I can use this as an opportunity to release some pent-up tension after the last chaotic few days. Fighting werewolves is in my blood— it is a job, and one I do exceptionally well.

A group of men crowd into the alley, their eyes flickering golden and gleaming with morbid intent. Seb is with them, sneering at me. He's probably mad because I stole his job yesterday.

Twelve against one. Good. They'll get in each other's way.

"You've been asking an awful lot of questions," one says bitterly, spitting the words out as he steps closer than the rest. His shoulders are broad and every step he takes is heavy and calculated, as though he is used to commanding every space he enters. He glares at me like he's expecting me to cower beneath his rage. The heat of his gaze sputters out before it can reach me.

I'm not one for cowering.

"You've been leaving an awful lot of bodies around town. Has no one ever taught you to clean up your mess?" I retort, relaxing my frame and going to great effort to seem nonchalant.

Show no weakness, don't let them know where to strike first.

A few of them glance around, checking the rooftops and the street behind them, looking for witnesses with an air of desperation. I know why. If they've pinned me as a hunter, they'll be expecting my family to be close by. Lurking and waiting to act.

"Let's get this over with," Seb says.

Their attention fixes on me; as one, they start to advance. The gleam of a fight dances in their golden eyes.

I flex my fists at their challenge.

This ought to be fun.