Out here, my voice felt small—insignificant in the awe-inspiring presence of nature.
When no reply followed, I pushed forward, determined to find the stream Shadow had spoken of.
It didn’t take long to find running water. Though loud enough to be heard, I didn’t see it until I rounded a series of bushes and came out upon rocky terrain. Here, it began as a trickle—barely visible until about thirty feet out, where it widened into obvious overflow. Its true source was revealed to be a stream where the earth had faltered during the last rainstorm, though it wasn’t until I raised my eyes and followed its current that I discovered a swell of earth nesting beneath the hanging strands of a weeping willow. There—at the very top, and shielded by the sun—sat Guy, watching me.
“Hey,” I said, taking care to avoid the spillover as I advanced. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
I frowned. While his honesty was surprising, his choice of words threw me.
“No?” I asked, stepping forward.
He shook his head. The shifting sun cut shadows across his face and nearly made him invisible beneath the hanging branches.
I cleared the distance between me and the swell in the earth and pushed myself through the hanging strands, parting them with my arm and peering at the man within. “Can I join you?” I asked.
He waved a hand, though whether it was in dismissal or welcome I couldn’t be sure. He kept using the sun’s rays to mask the emotions on his face.
After settling down beside him, I waited a moment to see if he would respond before clearing my throat. “You know,” I said, “you didn’t have to come all the way out here.”
“I wanted to get away from it.”
“From what?”
“Everything.”
I watched his hair—which was in dire need of a buzz if he were to continue his traditional look—part over his temple in the moments following his answer, his brows furrowing and the cleft in his chin deepening as he pursed his lips. It appeared that he wouldn’t respond, and just when I opened my mouth to say something, Guy spoke. “Jason—”
“About what Scarlet said,” I interrupted. “She—”
“Was right,” Guy interjected. “Honestly, truthfully, completely one-hundred percent right.”
“Guy—”
“I haven’t given you any choice in the matter,” he cut in, turning his head away when I attempted to lock eyes and regain control of the conversation. “This whole time I’ve been stringing you along as if you had no choice in the matter. Having you move in with me, forcing you to leave—”
“I had to.”
“No you didn’t,” he said. “I could’ve left you there. Had you play dumb. Make you look like you were insane. And after they locked you up, a Wiper could’ve been sent in to correct the whole thing. Game over. Reset. You could’ve been plopped somewhere else without ever getting involved in this, maybe even given a fresh start. But instead, I took you—effectively stripping you of every chance at a normal life.”
“You mean homelessness?” I asked. When he didn’t reply, I pressed my hand to his thigh and applied pressure. “Everything that’s happened to me has led me one step closer to something better.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes it is.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie about that?” I asked. “Think about it. If you hadn’t have come along, I’d be homeless. I’d be sitting under I-35 turning tricks or begging for money. And yeah—some bad shit has happened, but when doesn’t it? At least here I’m with you. There... ” I sighed. “I guess the truth of the matter is that we can’t fix anything.”
“We can’t.”
“But you have to stop cutting me out of everything. No more running away, making decisions for the both of us. If we’re doing this... if we’re going to keep doing us... we have to start acting like a team. Ok?”
“I know,” he said. He turned his head to look at me for one brief moment before pressing his temple against my shoulder. “I don’t know how I got so lucky. I don’t deserve a guy like you.”
“We deserve each other,” I said. “Don’t ever forget that.”
“The Agency responded,” Shadow said.
Guy and I paused as we stepped through Scarlet’s front door. “What?” Guy asked.
“What’d they say?” I added.
“They said,” Shadow began, “and I quote: ‘There are no mentions of anything called, or referring to, a Wendigo, in our database.’”
“What does that mean?” Guy asked.
“It means there’s no such thing as a Wendigo, Einstein,” Scarlet said.
“They’re sending someone to evaluate Jason’s condition,” Shadow added. “They should be here within a few days.”
My legs went out.
Guy was too slow to catch me.
I landed on the floor—hard—but what pain should have come with it was shadowed by my stolen breath.
I couldn’t believe it.
After everything I’d been told, after all the warnings I’d been given, this was the truth?
No. It couldn’t be. They were lying. That, or Eliot and Pierre had both been wrong. But if that were the case, why had they spoken with such conviction, such zeal?
As Guy knelt and helped me to my feet, I managed to draw a breath and looked Shadow right in the eyes. “How?” I asked.
“How do they know you’re not a Wendigo?” Shadow frowned. “The Archivists weren’t able to find any record of such a creature.”
“But Pierre and Elliot both mentioned it.”
“I grew up hearing the legend,” Guy added. “It has to be real.”
“It is likely only parable,” Shadow offered, “meant to teach a lesson or create diversion.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said.
“They aren’t wrong,” Scarlet said, pushing herself from her seat. “The Archivists know their shit. They’ve got this massive library that traces everything back to the Dark Ages, even biblical times if the rumors are true.”
“They are... unverified,” Shadow added. “Only the most prestigious are allowed that information.”
“What we mean,” Scarlet continued, “is that if anything like the Wendigo ever existed, the Archivists would know about it. And guess what? They’ve got nothing.” She laughed. “Guess that spares me saving the world.”
I resisted retorting by biting my lip.
“Who are they sending?” Guy asked.
“Likely a doctor,” Scarlet said. “Chances are if this has happened before, they’ll know what to do.”
“When will they be here?”
“They promised no later than tomorrow,” Shadow said.
I closed my eyes.
If I wasn’t Wendigo... and what they said was true...
I could be anything.
Early the next morning, a small, nondescript car bearing Louisiana license plates pulled up in front of Scarlet’s cabin. Black as night, with tinted windows, and spotless to the point where it appeared to have just been rolled out of the dealer room, it idled for at least thirty minutes before the engine was disengaged.
“What are they waiting for?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Guy replied, drawing Scarlet’s living room curtains open.
“They’re probably just surveying,” Scarlet said. “Making sure the situation is under control.”
“They don’t expect anything to happen,” I asked, turning my eyes on the woman. “Do they?”
“Most of this shit is done under lock and key. Security precaution. The last thing you want is your head ripped off by a Howler or your throat slit by a vamp.”
“It’s rare for an Archivist to leave the Agency,” Shadow added.
“Yeah,” Scarlet said. “Especially without professional backup.”
“Which means,” I said, “business.”
“Looks like they’re getting out,” Guy said.
I turned just in time to see a tall man step out of the passenger seat and a blonde woman from the driver’s side. He reached in to pull out a pair of briefcases while she surveyed the cabin from behind her massive sunglasses.
“What are they?” I asked.
“The man is definitely human,” Guy said. “The Archivist is a Wiper.”
“How can you tell?” I frowned.
“You get a sense of it after a while,” Scarlet said, the edge in her voice painfully obvious as she made her way to the door.
“But why would they send one of them?”
“Think about it,” Guy said. “Their job is to collect information on every facet of the supernatural world. That sometimes means interacting with humans. Dealing with the fallout. If someone knows too much—”
Scarlet mimicked shooting a gun with two fingers.
“Yeah,” Guy finished. “That.”
“Easier to clean up brains than guts,” Scarlet added.
The pair made their way up the stairs and entered through the outer porch door. When they came to the main entrance, the woman paused, waited for the man to take his place by her side, then reached forward to knock on the door. “Scarlet Jane,” she said.
Scarlet undid the many locks before opening the door. “Present,” she said.
“My name is Amelia Vanderoof,” the woman replied, withdrawing a case from a breast pocket and flipping it open to reveal an eight-pointed crest with a lion’s face on the motif. “We’re responding to a request made by Special Agent Shadow Nikia in regards to a supernatural disturbance.”
“Yeah,” Scarlet said. “Come in.”
Amelia Vanderoff removed her glasses to reveal cold eyes not unlike Shadow’s before stepping into the room. The man—whose corded arms strained from the weight of the cases—followed shortly.
“Nikia,” the woman said upon seeing Shadow.
“Vanderoof,” the other Wiper replied.
“I assume the individual in question is nearby?”
“I already see him,” the human man said.
I swallowed as he approached. “Sir,” I said.
“I’m Doctor James Mitchell,” he replied. “I’ll be the one carrying out your examination.”
“I thought humans weren’t supposed to know about us?”
“There are... circumstances,” Vanderoof replied, switching her gaze to Scarlet before directing it back at me. “James—will you please close the curtains? I don’t want anyone happening upon this.”
“No one knows where I am,” Scarlet said.
“Either way.”
Scarlet’s lips curled into a snarl as the doctor drew the curtains. Vanderoof remained silent—unaware, or dismissive, of Scarlet’s reaction.
Doctor Mitchell turned to face me and offered a smile. “Jason,” he said. “If you could have a seat.”
I settled into an armchair as Mitchell pulled a suitcase alongside him. He drew from its depths the usual scope of diagnostic materials—a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, as well as several syringes and a tourniquet. Once finished, he eased up in front of me and slid the stethoscope around his neck. “Lift your shirt,” he said.
I grimaced as the cold metal pressed against my chest.
“Deep breaths,” Mitchell said. “Again. Again.”
He pulled the stethoscope from his neck and directed his attention to my eyes. “My,” he said, pressing a bare hand along the side of my face. “Double-ringed irises. That’s uncommon.”
“We tried to turn me into a Wendigo,” I said. “To control my transformations.”
“As you’ve probably been made aware, the Wendigo doesn’t exist. At least not medically.” He spaced his fingers along my jaw and tilted my head. “Blink.” He aimed a penlight into one eye, directing my head as he deemed fit. His thumb rolled along my jaw and his gaze intensified as he tilted my head side to side. “Well,” he said, then swallowed. “There doesn’t appear to be an infection, nor any other abnormality that would indicate a biological phenomenon.”
“Then what’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m... not sure,” the doctor said, pausing, wetting his lips as a bead of sweat rolled down his face.
“Are you all, right?”
“I’m fine,” Mitchell laughed. “What would make you think I—”
“Shit!” Guy cried. “Let go of him!”
He rushed forward and pulled the doctor away from me.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Looks like someone hasn’t learned to control his powers,” Scarlet smirked.
I looked at the doctor.
A raging hard-on strained against his khakis.
“Fuck,” I said.
“Would you... please... excuse me a moment?” Mitchell said before running out the front door.
I sighed.
I still had so much to learn.
When Mitchell returned, the examination continued—with rubber gloves he had forgotten to don prior. He checked my blood pressure, took several vials of blood, examined my eyes more thoroughly and asked about previous experiences. He paid particular attention to fingernails and upper knuckles—which, over the course of the past few days, had begun to swell.
“Definite signs of Lycanthropy,” Mitchell said, tracing the blackened keratin along the bottom of one nail with a pen. “Have you had a recent transformation?”
I swallowed. Unable to speak, I simply nodded.
“Do you remember any of it?”
“Barely.”
“Do you know what you did?”
“I killed two campers in Texas Hill Country.”
“I see.” Mitchell nodded. “No need to explain further.”
“What’s the diagnosis?” Guy asked, drawing forward.
“He shows definite sign of Lycanthrope physiology,” Mitchell said, lifting his pad of notes. “Swollen joints. Hardened fingernails. Periods of blackout with little to no memory of what occurred thereafter, and violent tendencies reported as a result. But, as we’ve already seen... ” He smiled and bowed his head. “You are also very much Kaldr.”
“What does that mean?” I frowned.
“I deduce Panspermic Infection. In simpler terms,” Mitchell continued, “it means that your body was unable to respond to the Kvilla—or, as the Kaldr say: the sickness—due to the Lycanthropy already running through your veins.”
“So I’m not a Wendigo.”
“No.”
“So I’m part-Kaldr and part-Howler.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your body is cannibalizing itself.” Mitchell waited for someone to say something in the silence that followed. Given the look of absolute horror on Guy’s face, and the fact that I couldn’t breathe, the doctor took it as a sign to continue. “Lycanthropy is an infection, Svell Kaldr a regenerative. Neither can affect vampires because Sanguinitus is an alien parasite that kills and then subsumes its host. If you’d been bitten by a vampire, Guy attempting to change you may have worked—in theory. But Lycanthropy... it fights. And it doesn’t stop.”
“So what’s the cure?” Guy asked.
“There isn’t one,” Mitchell said.
The room fell silent.
“Panspermic Infection has a one-hundred-percent mortality rate. You have it, you’re dead. Unless... ”
“Unless what?” I asked.
“You kill one of the people who infected you.”
Part 2
At that point a pin dropping would’ve sounded like a bomb.
In a room that had just been host to a range of sound, it was horrifying to see how a few words could bring all noise to a halt.
The silence was deafening.
My ears rang.
My blood chilled.
It felt like my heart had stopped breathing.
When I finally managed to take a breath, all I managed was a strangled wheeze akin to someone fighting for their life o
n a respirator.
Kill one of the people who infected you?
Surely I’d been hearing things. There was no way Mitchell had just said that, though judging by Guy and Scarlet’s reactions, I was dead wrong.
“What?” Scarlet asked.
“Scarlet,” Vanderoof said, a condescending smile parting her lips. “Surely in your business you’ve become accustomed to death.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never heard of anything like this.”
“The circumstance is rare,” Mitchell said. “As is the scenario. Most paranormal creatures die before they have the chance to become infected.”
“Besides,” Vanderoof added. “What point is there in drawing out a death when it can be done immediately?”
“You can’t tell me there isn’t an alternative,” Scarlet said.
“There isn’t,” Mitchell sighed.
“Bullshit!” She trained her eyes on the Archivist. “You. Librarian. There has to be something that can be done.”
“Either Jason DePella kills one of the men who created him, or he dies. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t understand,” I frowned. “How is killing one of the people who infected me going to help anything?”
“The leading theory,” Mitchell said, “which has not been tested, mind you, is that by killing, then consuming parts of someone who infected you, your immune system is able to acclimate to a particular strain due to exposure. Once one is subdued, the other can subsume and then completely eradicate it.”
“I’ll do it,” Guy said.
All eyes in the room turned on him.
“I’m the one who got you into this mess,” he said, taking a step forward. “It’s only fair that I make it right.”
“No,” I said. “Besides—I’m not eating anyone else.”
“Jason—”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“We don’t have any other choice!”
“Yeah,” I said. “We do.”
Guy’s eyes darkened as the realization set in. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked, pushing myself from my seat. “Why does Pierre get to play God and I don’t?”
“Because it’ll start a war!” Guy cried. “Jason,” he continued, the beginnings of tears in his eyes. “Please. Just let me do this. For you.”
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