Lycanthropy Files Box Set: Books 1-3 Plus Novella

by Cecilia Dominic

  “You have friends in low places.”

  “And you’ve been to too many pubs where they play American music. Aha!” He pulled a folder from a stack of them.

  “Is there something that keeps the documents from rotting?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s called acid-free storage folders. Try not to touch the pages too much when you read them.”

  “Right.”

  I reminded myself that David was over two hundred years older than I was and likely had more secrets than I would ever know. The knowledge made me happy he was on my side.

  He had me wash my hands and put on cotton gloves before we opened the envelope. While I cleaned up, he placed a cloth over half his dining room table and, with gloves on, spread out the faded letters, some of which had obviously traveled quite a distance judging from the stains on them. Other splotches made me wonder if they’d been removed from corpses after battles, but I squashed that queasy train of thought.

  “Where did you get these?” I felt compelled to speak in hushed tones out of respect for the history in front of me.

  “Some were passed down to me. Some were given to me. The rest I hunted down or found.” He said the words like a prayer of gratitude. “Like this one.” He pointed to one on the bottom right of the table. “It’s from a soldier who died at Culloden. Not many of the lads could read or write, but this one had sailed abroad and had learned along the way. He sent it to the village priest with instruction to read it to his wife.”

  The narrow black scrawls flowed into the wrinkles of the letter, and I could barely make out the words.

  “He’s warning of a demon he saw in the night?” I asked after squinting at it for what felt like hours, making out the uneven lettering. Perhaps the soldier had been using a rock or some other non-flat surface as his makeshift desk.

  “Yes.” David nodded at me like I was the student and had just said something clever. “Read what else it says.”

  I got back to work and leaned in, but not so close I would damage the fragile paper with a stray breath. As I read, I translated the old, stilted phrasing into modern language. “Tell me if I’m getting this right. ‘When the demon appears, madness grips the men, and they lose the ability to think for themselves. I fear that should the Hanoverians not kill us, the demon will cause us to lose our minds. Hide yourselves, my dear ones. Darkness falls upon the land if man has commerce with such creatures, and all hope may already be lost.’”

  “Very good.”

  A chill breeze passed through the room, and the lights flickered. “Tell me you don’t have ghosts,” I said, but then a familiar shadow of a man in a helmet and a long jacket faded in against the fireplace. My jaw clenched. Of all the times for the stupid thing to appear.

  “I don’t, but it appears you do,” David said. He backed toward the door, his eyes wide and face pale.

  “As far as I can tell, he’s mostly harmless.”

  “It’s the mostly that concerns me, lad.”

  The ghost shadow lifted an arm such that the dark column of his sleeve grew across the floor, table, and letters until a finger pointed at one of the newer-looking ones.

  “That one’s from your father,” David whispered. “Quick, read it.”

  I didn’t want to take my eyes off the shadow, and I resisted the urge to back away toward David. “It looks like a fairytale. ‘Once upon a time two boys ran toward the woods to hunt wild boar. One stayed behind to guard the entrance to the path, and the other proceeded with much caution but with haste because he knew he would become the hunted in the blink of an eye and the wink of a tear. Once in the forest, he came upon a grotto with a beautiful waterfall…’”

  The shadow lengthened to the last paragraph, so I skipped to it.

  “‘Why do you hunt me?’ The boar king’s voice held the cries of the children he had devoured, and the boy trembled, his arms and legs tied to his body by fear and something else he could not name. The demon towered over the child and looked at him with flaming red eyes and gnashing pointed teeth that dripped with the black blood of those he had eaten.’” The words stopped there, and I picked up the paper to look on the back, but there was nothing.

  I looked up at the shadow, and a childhood memory floated to the surface of us in our flat before the war started. I sat on his knee and smelled his pipe smoke in his sweater even though he wasn’t smoking at the time. Pipe smoke and wool, that was his smell, and after he’d died, I would go in the closet and lie down among his clothes because just smelling them would make me forget he was gone for a little while. But that night, I’d asked for a scary story, and he’d told it to me, and then again on the following night and every night after that. It seemed he felt it was as important for me to know it as it was for me to hear him tell it. He stopped after I developed nightmares of being chased and my mother scolded him that I wasn’t old enough for such dark tales.

  I continued with the story from memory. “So then the boy looks at the boar king and tells him that he doesn’t feel appetizing, and please could he just send the boy on his way? He would never eat pig again, not even a little slice of bacon. But the creature only laughs at him and tells him he doesn’t let his food go for free, he has to pay a price, and perhaps he would allow the king to eat his friend and his sister instead, two lives for one.”

  It reminded me of Reine bargaining for Max’s life with his wife’s and daughter’s. Damn fairy folk.

  “The boy, of course, refuses. The boar king tears him to pieces and finds him so delicious he vows to hunt the rest of his family down, but while he’s eating him, the friend sneaks up and beheads the boar king. His blood mingles with that of the slain boy and brings him back to life, and his family is happy to have him back even though he’s never the same again. Because—”

  “You cannot be touched by the boar king whose name is Death and return to your family the way you were.” The ghostly voice filled the room.

  “Simon?” David stood up straight from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe. “Simon McCord? Is that you, lad? I’d know that voice anywhere.”

  20

  The shadow disappeared, and the letters scattered in a blast of chill wind. We gathered them back up without saying anything. The delicate process of moving the ancient paper only aggravated my already foul mood.

  “Why not just tell me what they say? Why show them to me?” I asked once we had them arranged again.

  “Why not tell me the ghost was your father?” David countered.

  “It’s not exactly a comfortable thing to say, ‘Oh, by the way, I think my father and your best friend is haunting me. He says hello and might pop by later.’”

  David shook his head, but he smiled. “Words have power, Gabriel. You were named for the messenger archangel—that’s significant.”

  I had always wondered. My name had always made me stand out among the Anguses and Ferguses and Charlies of my school. “What happened to my father, David? Was he torn apart by the boar king or the demon the Culloden soldier mentioned or some other kind of supernatural creature? My mother always told me a German shell had gotten him, and he hadn’t felt anything.”

  “You’ve seen the pictures.” It wasn’t a question. He stacked the letters in preparation for putting them away. One caught my eye.

  “Yes, I’ve seen the bloody, awful pictures of what was left of him. Stop—what is that one?”

  He paused, and I picked up the paper by the corner and held it to the light. This one looked like it had been crumpled, thrown away, and then fished out of the dustbin. In penciled letters so faint as to almost fade into the wrinkles, I read a single word. “Wolfsheim? The vargamore who started the Order?”

  “Yes, Wolfsheim. That one was retrieved during the first Great War from a street urchin who had lifted it off a gentleman I’d been following.”

  “Who was the gentleman?”

  “Someone I never had the fortune of knowing. He turned up dead. All these letters are pieces of a puzzle, and when pu
t together, they show how the Order of the Silver Arrow never died but rather continued to play a part in the misunderstandings that occur between the human world and ours.”

  “I heard the name ‘Wolfsheim’ again. Ah, right, from Reine.”

  “Yes, she shows up every so often. Not sure how she fits in with all this, but she does seem to appear whenever the Order gets active.”

  “She’s the one who mentioned it. She said the Institute was built along the same plan as Wolfsheim Castle, so she easily found her way around.”

  “Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I don’t believe that’s coincidental.” David sat on one of the formal dining room chairs and grunted. I lowered myself onto another one.

  “We can always talk to the architect. He’s one of us, and local. But first, tell me about the Order and what you think it had to do with my father’s death.”

  “Your father was no ordinary soldier, Gabriel. Simon McCord was a spy, but not for the Crown. He of course answered to the Council and was to gather information on both sides, but especially on the activities of the Order on the continent because we suspected they were involved somehow.”

  “Right, particularly with the Nazi concentration camps. It sounds like their agenda.”

  “Aye, if Wolfsheim could have found a way to do that to us, he would have.”

  I had always been proud of my father for serving the Crown, but now a new feeling swelled in my chest – curiosity – enhanced by the bitter edge of the desire for revenge. The author of my father’s death had stepped from the gloom of history. “How old would Wolfsheim be now? You said he got started in the eighteenth century, and no one knew how old he was then.”

  “Right, and even then he appeared as an older gentleman, so one would think he had a few hundred years on him already.” He glanced at the sideboard. “This conversation requires a drink. Whiskey?”

  “Please. And damn. He’d be five hundred years old by now at least. If he’s still alive, which is highly unlikely, even for us.”

  David rose and poured drinks for us. I wondered if he had an alcohol station in each room of the house.

  “It’s unlikely but not impossible,” he told me and handed me a drink.

  I took the heavy cut glass tumbler from his hand and looked at the volume of liquid in it. “I hope you don’t mind a houseguest if you expect me to finish all this. My liver doesn’t have as much practice as yours.”

  “Just drink up. I have plenty of room.”

  This stuff had more peaty flavors to it than the first whiskey he’d given me, and I suspected he didn’t drink it as often as the other. It burned going down and left a smoky scent at the back of my palate and sinuses.

  “Okay, what did you need to lubricate me to tell me?” I asked once I finished half the glass and set it on the table. The smoke in my throat led to the sensation of fire in my belly.

  David finished his glass, and his eyes had gotten red-rimmed and teary. “Your father had no business being near the battlefield where they found him. None. He was supposed to have been in Antwerp with the Belgian resistance.”

  “Brugge isn’t that far from Antwerp,” I said. “But what was he doing there?”

  “He was either lured or tricked into going there.” David looked into the fire. “I wish he could tell us.”

  “I’ll ask him the next time he appears.”

  David snorted. “That’s the problem with ghosts. Considering he died violently and is here rather than there, he’s likely lost a lot of his memory with the transfer. I suspect if he could, he would’ve told us by now. When did he start visiting you?”

  In spite of my intention not to, I took another swig of the Scotch. “The day of the murders at the Institute. I swear I hadn’t seen him before.”

  “That speaks of a connection, now, doesn’t it? The demon on the battlefield and the one in our midst.”

  “But why?” I swirled the drop of amber liquid at the bottom of my glass. “I can see how they would be interested in the reversal process, but how could that be related to a trap and murder in the Second World War?”

  “If you figure that out, you may solve both mysteries.”

  Now that Selene was opening up to me, I hoped she’d tell me why the scarred Englishman had been at the murder scene and arrange for us to meet peacefully. I needed to know what he’d seen and why he was spying on us. My instincts told me he hadn’t been the murderer but might have if given the opportunity.

  Yes, Selene was in more danger than she realized if this was all connected. Luckily I didn’t mind keeping an eye on her.

  That night, no ghosts or visions bothered me, and I made it to Lycan Village in time to visit the crystal and magic store where Selene had gotten the tarot cards. Veronica Chalice’s shop smelled of herbs and incense and other fruity and earthy scents. I never claimed to be a sensitive, but whenever I walked in there, I felt tingles along my spine, at the base of my skull, and along my fingers.

  Veronica herself greeted me and caught me flexing my hands and rubbing my thumbs over my fingertips to dispel the feeling that they were waking up after I accidentally slept on and numbed them.

  “I just got some new fluorite in,” she said. “It’s itching to be picked up and held. Maybe it’s calling to you?”

  She plucked a round green and purple stone the size of a large marble off a stand and handed it to me. Its coolness dispelled the tingles.

  “It likes you,” she said, and her smile lit her entire face like she’d made a royal match. “It’s been a while, Investigator McCord. What brings you in today? Surely the fluorite didn’t call to you all the way out in Shady Acres.”

  “No,” I said and handed it back to her. She placed it on its stand among some other brightly colored stones of various shapes. “I’m here as part of a case, I think.”

  “You think?” She raised iron-gray brows the same color as her long, flowing hair. Today she wore a dress the color of storm clouds, and her hair and clothing blended together to give an impression of rain and sorrow.

  “Do you recall selling one of your local tarot decks to a young woman with red hair?” I asked. “I know it’s a lot to ask you to remember one customer considering how busy you are during the tourist season.” Indeed, it surprised me how quiet her shop was, but I imagined a lot of the tourists were sleeping off their Solstice ceilidh hangovers.

  She picked up a clear round ball. I raised my eyebrows.

  “Clear quartz. It helps me think,” she said before I could ask.

  “Oh, you don’t gaze into it and get the answers?”

  She grinned. “That’s not one of my talents, I’m afraid. Now hush if you want me to remember your redhead.”

  “It’s actually not the redhead I’m so much interested in.” I coughed when she gave me a skeptical look. “Okay, maybe I am interested in her, but the deck intrigues me the most.”

  “Oh, I remember her now. An American, right? Poor girl seemed troubled, more so than my average patron.”

  “That’s probably her, then. Big blue eyes?”

  “Yes, and a delicate face. Unique for one like you.” She didn’t say lycanthrope or werewolf out loud; most of us didn’t since few knew about us, and I appreciated her discretion.

  “Oh, we don’t tend toward ‘delicate’?” I couldn’t resist teasing her. “What are we, then?” I shook my head. Something about the shop made it hard for me to concentrate, but it was also that since Veronica knew who and what I was but didn’t have any kind of agenda with me, I could relax around her.

  “You’re sharp, clever, tough. Your bones tend to be thick and strong, your jaws square and your shoulders broad. Even the women. Lady Morena? She could stop a lorry.”

  I coughed to hide my laugh at the image her words prompted. “Why is that, do you think?”

  “I’m a psychic, not a doctor. Perhaps it’s all the running over uneven ground. It builds up your bone thickness and density. Or that your bones have to be strong the way they’re reshaped
and molded. Otherwise, they’ll break.”

  “Do you think the redheaded American is in danger of breaking?”

  She looked at the quartz in her hand, and a little line appeared between her eyebrows when she pondered. “No, but she carries a great burden she’s had for a long time, and recent events have only made it worse. Coming here was a last resort for her. Her type—and by that I mean scientists—don’t seek out magical solutions.”

  “What else did you give her?” I asked. “Or sell her.”

  Veronica flashed a quick smile. “You know I’m a fair saleswoman, Inspector. I wouldn’t have sold her anything that wouldn’t help her.”

  “What do you know about these?” I asked and pulled out the two Major Arcana cards I’d “borrowed” from Selene the other night. She took them from me.

  “They’re from the deck I designed,” she said. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Well, what inspired you to draw these particular people?”

  She handed them back to me. “Some of my paintings come to me in dreams, some in visions. I walk through the fields a lot. Perhaps something inspired me out there.”

  “You’re lying to me, Veronica,” I said. “If you’re frightened of these two, I understand why, but it’s important for me to know who they are, or at least who they are to you.”

  She turned her back on me and grabbed a soft cloth, which she polished the round quartz with. She then placed it on a plastic holder on a brightly lit shelf and stepped back and gazed at it.

  “Veronica,” I pressed, “I’m serious. People have been killed, and the man is the one who is connected to whatever is keeping Selene’s lost object.”

  “I cannot tell you much about him,” she said, “only that he is not like me or even like you or the others you have been associating with. He is more like the Moon.” Again, I admired her ability to avoid saying names or anything else that could summon one of them.