There was no time to waste.
Cliff pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door came loose, and he pushed it open, and guided Ronnie inside. He made sure to close and lock the door behind them.
"Wolfsbane!" Ronnie shouted once they were both inside. "Wolfsbane!"
He was speaking coherently, if only raging over a single word.
He's still human, Cliff thought.
He pulled down the shades on all the windows as Ronnie started raging, knocking aside chairs and pacing like a boxer eager for a fight.
"Calm down, Ronnie."
"Wolfsbane!"
"I know, I know. But it's not for you. Tarquin is your friend. We’re all your friends. We’re on your side Ronnie. Remember that. Remember who you are. This is your office. Your name is Ronald Jones. You know how to control this. You know what to do to stop it. You have the power to stop it, Ronnie. Everything is going to be okay, but I need you to calm down now."
Cliff finished drawing the blinds and started righting the chairs Ronnie had knocked down. All the while he hoped Ronnie wouldn't become too destructive or turn on Cliff.
"I'm your friend, Ronnie. This is me, Cliff, your buddy, your drinking buddy. That's what you need, Ronnie, something to calm you down. I'm going to get something to calm you down. You need a drink. Deep breaths, Ronnie, remember who you are."
Cliff crossed the foyer to Ronnie's office. He went to the desk and opened the bottom drawer where he knew Ronnie kept the alcohol. He found a bottle of single malt scotch. Laphroaig.
He took the bottle to the kitchenette and found two glasses. As he poured, he heard Ronnie in the reception area huffing and puffing, cursing and growling.
When Cliff came back out, he saw that Ronnie was now trying to cool off. He was breathing deeper now, and more like a human than an animal, but his face, neck and hands were still wolfish.
"Drink this," Cliff said, thrusting a glass of whiskey into Ronnie's lupine hands. "Here, let me help you with that."
Cliff held the bottom of the glass as Ronnie grasped it with both hands.
“Down the hatch, buddy.”
Together they lifted the glass to his face, and Ronnie downed the shot in a single gulp.
Cliff took the glass from him and refilled it. “There’s more here if you need it.”
Ronnie nodded and grunted.
Cliff could see Ronnie was struggling to keep his composure. His face was contorted in pain. Not only had hair started to grow on his chin and cheeks, but his eyebrows were bushy, and his complexion had become darker. Even his bones seemed to have changed, causing his nose to jut out, becoming a snout.
Ronnie curled his lip and snarled, and Cliff could see the fangs beginning to form. His human gums were stretching as the teeth enlarged. They were bleeding from the stress of the transformation. Ronnie covered his face in his hands and moaned.
"Drink this one too," Cliff said, handing him a second glass.
Ronnie managed to hold the glass between his two palms without assistance and throw back the drink in a single gulp.
Instead of handing the glass back to Cliff, Ronnie tossed it aside, smashing it against a wall.
"It's okay, Ronnie. I know you can do this. Focus on my voice. If you can understand what I'm saying, you can still come back. Can you understand me?"
Ronnie winced but nodded. His eyes looked bloodshot, but still human.
He's changing back, Cliff thought. The alcohol was starting to have its effect, sedating him just enough to take the edge off his anger.
"It's the full moon, Ronnie. That's why you feel this way. I know it makes you angry, and I know you want to give in to it, but you can't give in. Focus on my voice, on what I'm saying. You can get through this. We can get through it together. I'm here for you. I'm here to help you. I'm your friend and I want to help you. Try to breathe slow and deep. Try to relax. Lay down here, on the sofa."
Cliff led Ronnie to the sofa and helped him sit down. "Good, Ronnie, that's perfect. Deep breaths, now. In a moment, this will all be over, and you will be yourself again. If it's easier, you could lie down. It will make you feel more relaxed, and less angry. Just lie back on the sofa, Ronnie, and relax."
Ronnie seemed confused at the suggestion, like he didn't understand the words.
"Listen to me, Ronnie. I'm your friend. I'm here to help. Now just lie back a little."
Ronnie didn't seem to be listening, so Cliff stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder and applied a bit of pressure to help Ronnie understand his intention.
"Just relax, Ronnie. Lie back—"
Cliff saw a flash of rage in the moment before Ronnie knocked his hand aside with a furious blow. Cliff staggered back, thrown off balance by the strength of his friend’s attack.
Ronnie shot up from the sofa. He seemed to have grown in stature. His shirt grew taut around his bellowing chest. His breath became labored. His eyes changed color from blue to yellow as his nose became a full snout and his cheeks were overgrown with fur. Buttons popped from his shirt as the fabric stretched and ripped. Ronnie's chest grew large and matted with fur. His arms grew bigger and stronger.
Cliff backed away. The room echoed with the sounds of fabric tearing and bones creaking as they became more massive and shifted in place.
Oh my God.
It was hard to judge how tall he was because the more he grew, the more he leaned forward, until he was no longer standing but supporting himself on all fours with tatters of clothing still hanging from his shoulders and hips. His shoes had burst under the force of his growing feet, which now had claws to match the ones that had sprouted from his hands.
Cliff felt lightheaded, and dropped to the ground. Whether it was from the fear of seeing his friend become a monster, or from blood withdrawal, Cliff had no way of knowing. His heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears, and his hands shook.
Oh, shit. This isn't going to end well…
The werewolf tore the room asunder, destroying everything his human self had built. The monster that was once his friend paused his rampage only to throw his head back and howl loudly enough to wake the town.
Chapter Thirteen
Slater Residence, Bicester, England
The house felt emptier than usual. Scarlett sat alone on the sofa, her heart still pounding from the walk home. The long walk alone.
She put her face in her hands.
Why?
It made no sense. Cliff had asked her out. It was a date. He said he would be there, and he never showed up.
I don’t deserve this.
She felt like crying, but held back. She was too angry, too frustrated, too tired for tears.
It’s not you, she reminded herself. It’s him.
If he couldn’t make it, he should have called. Or texted. He didn’t even do that. He just left her there at the bar. Everyone could see she was alone and waiting for someone. She had told Tim as much. She had said it to the bartender. Anyone watching her could tell she’d been stood up. The worst part was everyone could see she’d been abandoned by some jerk. She was humiliated. Unable to hold back the wave of anguish any longer, tears rolled down her face.
Don’t waste any tears on that bastard. He’s not worth it. You’re worth more than this. If he can’t see that, then forget him. He’s just another selfish bastard. Why do you give your time to such jerks? You shouldn’t care so much.
But she did care, and it couldn’t be helped.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and went to the kitchen in search of relief. She got a wine glass from the cupboard, set it on the counter and stared at it.
You’re already drunk, Scarlett.
She’d only had two beers at the bar, and she’d drunk them as slowly as she could. She was tipsy, but steady on her feet. Regardless, the shame of the evening still clung to her.
Not drunk enough.
She crossed to the wine bar, poured herself a full glass of the first wine she saw, and took it to the sofa. There, she
sat and sipped and stared at the emptiness of the room, and her life.
She felt the urge to do something. Sitting here drinking alone wasn’t going to fix anything. She needed to focus on a problem she could fix. She needed a distraction.
Jade, she thought.
That was a bigger problem. Jade was dead. She had probably been murdered. That was a much bigger problem than being stood up at a bar by some jerk.
She went to her room and retrieved her laptop. She settled in on the sofa with her back against the armrest and her legs stretched out on the cushions. She opened the computer in her lap, and started searching the internet.
At first she didn’t know what to search for. Her mind was foggy from the alcohol.
Poison, she thought. She needed to find out more about what had killed her friend.
It was a flower. That’s what the toxicology report had said. She had taken a photo of the report. She checked her cell phone and pulled up the image. It was a blue-purple flower, like the one in Tarquin’s flower garden.
Wolfsbane. That was its name.
She typed “wolfsbane” into her search engine and fell down the rabbit hole of online research.
The flower was also called Aconitum, she learned. It had many other names, too. “Monkshood,” “Leopard’s Bane,” “Mousebane,” “Woman’s Bane.”
That’s a lot of banes, she thought with some amusement. She giggled.
Wolfsbane was a flower that grew in the mountain meadows of the Northern Hemisphere. Extremely poisonous, even to the touch, and it had to be handled with great care.
The color of wolfsbane wasn’t always the blue-purple she had seen in the toxicology photo and in Tarquin’s garden. It came in many varieties and shades. It could also be white, yellow or pink. Rather, it was the distinctive shape of the flower that made it recognizable.
She found an old news article from a few years earlier reporting the death of a gardener in Hampshire. The man was a professional with years of experience. He was tending a garden at the estate of a millionaire when he suddenly collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. He died five days later of organ failure. Blood tests were taken while he was still alive, though they didn’t reveal the cause of his sickness.
Later, the gardener’s father investigated the reasons behind his son’s death and discovered the presence of wolfsbane in the garden. It was determined that the gardener must have brushed his bare skin against the wolfsbane flower allowing the toxins to enter his blood.
Most of the poison is in the roots, the article explained, but the flower was also poisonous, though less potent. The article theorized the gardener might have had a cut on his hand, which would have made it easier for the poison to enter his bloodstream.
Continuing her research, Scarlett found many other instances of death by wolfsbane, though some of them were so far back in history that there was little information available that could be trusted.
In the cases that seemed most legitimate, it was reported that the poison caused respiratory problems and paralysis of the heart muscle. Vomiting, dizziness, and diarrhea were also common.
The flower was known to the ancient Greeks and had long been used to poison wolves, hence the common name of “wolfsbane.”
Scarlett next searched to see where one might purchase wolfsbane, and saw that the seeds were regularly available for purchase at online stores. There did not seem to be any laws against buying or selling it.
She found that the plant had uses beyond poisoning animals and people. In traditional Chinese medicine and Ayurveda, the toxic chemical Aconitum was used to treat fear, anxiety, and restlessness. It could alleviate acute sudden fever, among other conditions. It was even said to help alleviate heavy, pulsating headaches.
After so much time reading up on wolfsbane, Scarlett was starting to get a headache herself.
“Enough,” she said aloud, and closed her laptop.
+++
Hogarth’s Residence, Bicester, England
The next morning, Detective Inspector Rogerson arrived at the Hogarth residence shortly after the CSI team had arrived and secured the area. He counted three police cars and a mobile CSI laboratory van parked outside.
He walked in to find his team already at work.
DS Boyle was in the living room talking with Frank Hogarth. The husband was seated in a recliner chair in front of the television, which was turned off. DS Boyle spoke to him in hushed tones, nodding and taking notes.
I thought the husband was out of town on a business trip, Rogerson mused to himself. I guess his plans changed.
He didn't want to interrupt the interview. It looked like DS Boyle had gotten the husband to talk.
His task today was to supervise the search, to make sure they looked in every nook and cranny. It was a delicate task made more complicated with the grieving husband still in the room. He preferred to conduct searches when the occupants were away.
The husband was a suspect, but still presumed innocent under the law. They needed to look at everything, but Rogerson was also cognizant of the need to keep good relations between law enforcement and civilians. He knew only too well how an overeager search party could destroy a house. They had the right to turn things upside down, to search under the floorboards and inside the walls and inside the plumbing if necessary, but of course it rarely came to that. He did not want to destroy this man's home. The man's life had already been destroyed by the death of his wife, whether or not he was guilty of the act.
So Rogerson moved from room to room, making sure that his men were searching thoroughly and efficiently, but causing as little damage as possible. If there was reason to suspect that they needed to dig under the floors or cut into the walls and pipes, they could handle that later.
He went to the kitchen first. Two officers, Mitchell and Martin, were checking the cupboards and the drawers. They worked as a team, one taking photographs and the other opening doors and drawers, pulling things out and putting them back.
They paid special attention to the foodstuffs. They bagged and tagged everything in the refrigerator and all the fruit and vegetables on the counter. The spices, soups and pastas were likewise catalogued and taken away in evidence bags.
Rogerson saw hand towels hanging from the refrigerator door and on the stove.
"Make sure you bag all the towels and utensils," Rogerson reminded them.
Martin, the man with the camera, nodded. "Will do, Inspector."
"Find anything unusual?"
"Nothing that looks like wolfsbane."
"Keep looking. It could be ground into a powder or mixed into a liquid. I want this entire kitchen bagged and tagged, and particle samples from every surface."
Martin nodded again. "No stone left unturned, sir."
Rogerson clapped him on the shoulder and then moved to another room. He walked through the pantry, the laundry room, and the master bathroom. Then, he went upstairs to the bedrooms and bathrooms. In each room he found a two-person team searching, cataloging, photographing, and taking meticulous notes.
None of them had turned up anything of interest to the case.
In the master bedroom, PC Rosner was going through the medicine cabinet. "He's currently on several medications, sir. Should we take them or leave them?"
"Samples only," Rogerson said. "If there's only one pill left in the bottle, cut it in half and notify his doctor. We're not going to take the last of his meds."
Rosner nodded. "Understood, sir."
When he had gone through every room of the house, he stepped out onto the back patio and looked at the CSI team taking samples from the garden. His eye caught a purple flower, and he went to inspect it, but it was not wolfsbane.
If he's hiding anything, Rogerson thought, we’ll find it.
Chapter Fourteen
Cliff woke to the taste of dirt and grass in his mouth. He felt the hard ground beneath him and when he opened his eyes he found himself lying in the grass under a tree. He was in one of the local parks.
It was dark outside, but the sky seemed to be brightening. He looked up through the leaves of the trees and could see a dark purple sky but no stars. He remembered that it had been a full moon, but he could not find it now.
The air was chilly, and the grass was damp with dew.
He rolled over and felt the soreness in his legs and arms. His body was more than stiff. It felt bruised, like he’d gone ten rounds with the reigning heavyweight champion.
Cliff sighed, but it came out more like a groan. The more he came to his senses, the more the pain settled into his body.
What the hell happened?
He sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes. His head hurt, and he felt it with his hand. He had a large bump on his forehead.
Looking down at himself, he saw that his clothes were torn and bloody.
Oh shit. What have I done?
His first thought was that he must have killed someone. The hunger must have seized him, and he had found someone to feed on. It was his worst nightmare.
But then, he realized the hunger was still there.
He checked the places on his arms and legs where the blood stained his clothes, and discovered he was covered in cuts and bruises. His wounds were fresh, but already healing.
He hadn’t attacked someone else. He was the one who had been attacked.
Alarmed, he checked his surroundings.
Next to him he saw a naked man curled up on the ground in a fetal position with his back to Cliff. Even naked, the man looked familiar, the mop of orange hair giving him away.
“Ronnie?”
The man stirred at the sound of his name. He groaned, and rolled over in his sleep with his eyes still closed. It was definitely Ronnie. And he was definitely naked.
“Oh good lord,” Cliff chuffed, trying to shield his eyes from Ronnie’s nakedness. “Ronnie, wake up!” Cliff insisted. He moved to touch him, but then thought better of it.
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