The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  ‘She doubts it’—Sinn’s intuition is for shit. It’s taken me a moment, but I think I’ve gotten my bearings. When I touched that letter, it must have transported me here—wherever here is. And the Brawnyman must be a Varulv.

  “Look, Mr. Var—"

  “It’s Adrian.”

  “Look, Adrian. I don’t mean to be rude, and you have a lovely . . . cabin, nice décor, very gothic-rustic, but I’m not exactly partial to being kidnapped and I’m having a shitty morning. I never got to finish my latte and I’m betting it’s cold now.”

  “Kidnapped? You haven’t been kidnapped. You accepted my invitation,” answers Adrian in confusion.

  “Invitation?”

  “I sent you a formal invitation, with the Vegvisir symbol.”

  “The what? You mean the symbol with the eight spokes, that kind of looks like a wheel?”

  “Yes. It is a compass, the ancient Nordic symbol for travel.”

  “I see. And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Adrian frowns. “Aren’t you an Advocate?” he asks, looking down at the silver ring with the red stone I wear on my ring finger, signaling to the world that I’m an Advocate.

  “Yes, but nobody ever gave me an employee handbook. Please humor me and tell me what it means.”

  Even though Adrian nods, I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. “What I sent to you was a formal summons. It had your name on it, keying it to you, so no else could activate it. My family’s signet identified it as coming from me, and the Vegvisir symbol indicated that, upon acceptance, you would be transported to a meeting place.”

  “So, you’re telling me that I should have known, from the Vegvisir symbol, on the uh, mage-mail, that once I touched it, I was going to be transported to a meeting place?”

  “Yes. It was a common practice used for thousands of years,” he answers.

  “Of course, it was,” I mumble under my breath, “and here I thought it was a movie starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I’m tiring of all the centuries-old practices that no one in my merry band could possibly know of, as none of us have been alive for centuries. At least I don’t think so. Admittedly, Sinn is aloof about her age, but I don’t think she’s centuries old. She’s all but admitted she was born sometime after World War I. We’ve been playing this game where I try and guess her age and she pretends to be offended. Typically, she ignores my inquiries, but during training last week I asked her where she was during World War I and she slipped up and responded in an offended voice, “How old do you think I am?” and then she tossed me onto my back a little harder than was necessary, confirming I was a bit long in my estimation.

  “I must confess, it has somewhat fallen out of fashion in the last hundred years or so I’ve been told; I’ve never actually used it before. I never needed an Advocate before. Under the circumstances, I thought a formal summons was appropriate,” continues Adrian.

  “And what circumstances are those?” I ask, as I reluctantly take a seat at the table.

  A serious look takes hold of Adrian’s face. “I need your help. Someone is trying to overthrow my family.”

  The visit I got from Red and his mutts this morning told me as much. Although, I think I’ll keep Red’s visit to myself, at least until I learn exactly what’s going on. Truth be told, I have no idea what side of this I should be on. For all I know, the Varulvs are horrible rulers. It’s rare for good people to end up in power and even rarer for them to hold onto it.

  “I can’t promise I can help; I’m willing to hear you out, though. First, is there any chance I could get a cup of coffee?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes—I really need some caffeine.

  Adrian nods. “Of course. I hope black is okay. I’m the only person that uses this cabin; it’s my escape away from the world, and I don’t have any cream or sugar.”

  “If black is what you have, black is fine.”

  After Adrian hands me a cup of silky black coffee which he made with a high-end French press with what looks like actual gold trim—very MC Hammer of him—he starts to take a seat across from me when he pauses, sniffs the air, and gives me a concerned look. “I apologize, Mr. Valentine, it appears I have some unexpected company.”

  “Care to elaborate?” I ask.

  Adrian sniffs the air. “There are four wolves surrounding the cabin . . . and something else. Something wearing peach-scented moisturizer.”

  “Peach? Really?”

  He nods.

  “I take it they’re not friends of yours?”

  “No. I don’t know the scents and I’m not expecting anyone. We’re several hours away from civilization. There are no paved roads to get here. This place is my sanctuary; no one ever comes here but me . . . and my father before me. I thought this was the perfect place for our meeting. I never imagined anyone would dare bother me here.” Adrian pauses and sniffs the air again. “The wolves have taken their werewolf forms.”

  “Not exactly neighbor-welcoming attire?”

  “Not exactly,” he responds.

  I stare at my nearly full cup of coffee and sigh in frustration, realizing the gods are against me this morning. I stand to the side of the cabin’s front window, and look out, to try and get my bearings. It looks like the cabin is in a clearing in a thick forest of conifers, birch, spruce, and aspens. We’re in the middle of an old and dark wood. This just keeps getting better and better. “Where are we?”

  “Were in a Boreal forest in Nunavut just north of the Manitoba border. Beautiful Eh.”

  “Canada?” I ask.

  “Positive.”

  “You Canadian?”

  “American, I spent a lot of time as a child trying to get lost in the woods, and it’s easier to do that up here.”

  “Peachy. If there are no roads, how did you get here?”

  “I flew.”

  I wait a moment for him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, I prompt, “With your arms? Eh.”

  “No,” he smirks, “helicopter. I parked it in a larger clearing a little over a mile south of here.”

  “Of course, it is. Why couldn’t it be on the roof?” I mutter in frustration.

  “It’s a pitched roof,” he answers.

  We’re in a log cabin with no drywall. The exposed ceiling above us is pitched—obviously the roof is pitched. I can’t tell if he’s trying to be funny or if he’s just that clueless. I hope it’s the former, or we are both probably going to die.

  “Mr. Valentine, there is a hidden cellar with a panic room. My head of security insisted it be put in—just in case. The trap door is underneath the lounger.” He points to the leather chair in the center of the living room. The security code is 102816. The keypad is hidden in the armrest, the cushion is removable, it’s Velcro. Once the door is closed, it can only be opened from the inside. I suggest you go there now.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask, already suspecting the answer will be something heroically stupid.

  “I’m going to greet my guest and defend my home,” answers Adrian as he begins to undress. He takes his shoes off, tucks his socks securely inside of them and sets them by the door. He then takes his shirt and pants off, folds them neatly, and sets them on the table.

  I’m in pretty good shape. I work out, try and eat right, drink a little too much, but overall, I look good for my age. Particularly, since I’ve started training with Sinn. I even have the beginnings, the very beginning, okay, barely the beginnings, of a six-pack. This guy, however, is in phenomenal shape. His muscles have muscles. Just looking at him makes me feel guilty about eating a burger last night. I feel like I should go for a run or something. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not taking my clothes off. I barely know you. I don’t care how muscular you are. This whole thing better not be a rouse to try and get me naked.”

  Adrian gives me a dry smirk as he partially transforms, growing until he is nearly seven feet tall and as wide and musclebound as a juiced-up professional wre
stler. Fur sprouts all over his body, and his nose and mouth elongate into a snout. His eyes become larger and he grows long fangs and sharp claws. I am fascinated by the process and can’t help but stare with my mouth open. It’s not just a physical change; his attitude, posture, and voice change as well. He visibly becomes more primitive, more dangerous, and his pattern of speech simplifies and becomes more aggressive. “I’m going to kill these trespassers. I am the leader of all packs. I am the Lycanthrope.” He lets out a primordial growl which nearly causes me to lose control of my bladder.

  Once my knees stop knocking, I manage to say, “Hold up a second, Wolfy. I am not going to go lock myself in a panic room while you get rolled by a pack of dogs; or should I say, engage in a lopsided kerfuffle, eh.”

  Adrian gives me a near-violent look.

  “No offense intended, Mr. Werewolf, sir. Just stating the facts as I see them.” It’s probably not a great idea to piss off the seven-foot-tall killing machine, at least while I’m standing within claw’s reach. I consider backing away, putting some space between myself and the scary wolf, and then I remember something I saw on the Discovery channel about predators and how it’s important not to show any fear or they will attack, so I hold my position. ”Any-hoo, four wolves and something that smells peachy? Doesn’t sound like a fight you could win. At least not easily.”

  “I am the Lycanthrope—” He growls.

  “Yeah, I got that the first time. Still, five on one doesn’t seem like good odds. Here’s a thought.” I reach into my pocket and retrieve my pen. “Why don’t I just draw us an exit?”

  “I will not run.”

  “Think of it as a strategic retreat. We’re not running, we’re simply choosing a better location for the battle. If it makes you feel better, we can leave them a note telling them where we’ve gone.”

  Wolf-Adrian struggles with himself. It looks like transforming into the werewolf form has buried some of his ability for rational cognitive thought. He seems to be running on almost pure instinct and his instincts are telling him to kill everybody. Finally, he gets his wolf-self under control and nods in apparent agreement with my plan.

  “Great.” I start drawing a door on his wall with my pen. While I draw, I ask, “What are they doing?”

  “Waiting,” he snarls.

  “Good.” Once I finish drawing the door and handle, I say “home” and reach for the handle, instead of finding a cool round metal handle, which is what

  I drew, my hand smashes into the wall.

  “Son of a bitch!” I yell as I vigorously attempt to shake the pain out of my hand. “Something is blocking the magic of my gate-pen!” I didn’t even know that was possible. I absolutely hate always being in the dark about what is and what is not possible. “I’m really starting to hate magic.”

  “Witch,” says Adrian between growls.

  “The peach-smelling one?”

  He nods.

  “Awesome, four wolves and a witch. Sounds like the name of an off-Broadway play. Panic room it is. Good luck. It was a pleasure meeting you. We should do it again sometime, maybe somewhere less woodsy.”

  “No panic room,” he growls. I wait for him to elaborate, but all I get is one additional word, “Witch.”

  “Are you telling me a witch would be able to open it?”

  Adrian nods again.

  “Crap. Is there any other way out of here?” I ask.

  He shakes his head no.

  “Do you have any weapons? Preferably large caliber firearms loaded with silver bullets? Maybe a machinegun turret on the roof?”

  Adrian points at the wall of weapons with his sharp claw.

  “That’s it?” I say slightly terrified of the prospect of fighting four werewolves and a witch, armed only with medieval weapons.

  Adrian looks down at his claws.

  “Yeah, I guess you don’t really need weapons, do you?” I check my cell phone for a signal—there isn’t one. “Have you got a sat phone or anything like that?” I ask.

  The Lycanthrope shakes his head no again.

  “Great.” I walk over to the wall of weaponry. There is a lance, a morningstar, a bow artificially nocked with a single arrow, and a long sword with a decorative dragon’s head hilt. The morningstar is awesome looking, but I’m afraid I would stick the pointy ball part with the chain into my back the first time I tried to swing it—not a weapon for a novice. The lance seems useless, unless I can convince Adrian to let me ride him into battle, which sounds terrifying and cool, but would probably be really uncomfortable without a saddle. The last time I shot a bow and arrow was high school and I was so bad that after the first day, the teacher had me run laps, rather than risk the safety of other students. All in all, other than the sword, they are all weapons I haven’t trained with. Weapons I doubt I should even touch. What I wouldn’t give for a shotgun.

  I take the sword off the wall and take a practice cut. It’s surprisingly light and its balance is nice. The blade sparkles as if it was just polished, and the dragon’s head on its handle almost looks alive. As I hold it, a tingling sensation runs up my arm; there is magic at work in this blade. Great, just what I need, more magic. With my luck, it’s cursed.

  “What do you know about this blade?” I ask.

  Adrian shrugs. “Never seen before. Dad’s. Shiny.”

  “Thanks, that’s real helpful. You should put that informational description in a Craigslist ad if you ever try and sell it.” I consider hanging the sword back on the wall rather than fooling around with unknown magic. If I do that, I will have to fight four werewolves and a witch with my bare hands, and bare hands versus claws is like paper versus scissors—claws win every time. And, I am not completely worthless with a sword. Sinn’s been making me practice, albeit with a wooden short sword, once a week as part of my hand-to-hand combat training. She still insists I wear a blade to court and it’s been her goal to make it so that it’s not just decorative. I’ve been trying to convince her I’m never going to be in a sword fight; I’m a twenty-first-century guy and I like my firearms. I prefer not to kill things, but if I must kill something, I prefer to do it from a distance. The greater the distance the better. I dislike it when Sinn’s right, almost as much as I hate being wrong. I’m never going to hear the end of it when she hears about how I had to use a sword to defend myself. #FML.

  “Where is the witch?”

  “North.”

  “Which way is north?” I ask, not having a fucking natural compass stuck up my ass, like wolves apparently do.

  Adrian points in the same direction the entrance doorway faces.

  “How far?”

  The Lycanthrope growls, “Woods edge.” It is not exactly talking in his wolf forms, at least not in the sense we’re used to, or in the Talking Ed sense, but somehow, I understand his growls as words.

  “And the wolves?”

  “Around.” He points to four spots that loosely equate to a pentagram, once you include the witch. He is telling me we’re surrounded.

  “Good.” I grin, having formed a plan. “Here is what I need you to do.”

  Chapter Four

  My plan is simple. Adrian will act like he’s making a break for it and run south towards his helicopter, the opposite direction as the witch, and hopefully all the wolves follow him. When he reaches the helicopter, he will keep running past it and loop back around to the cabin. Assuming he doesn’t get overtaken, which he growls is impossible, it should take him about seven minutes so he says, give or take a few seconds. Once the chase is on, I will confront the witch and hopefully talk her, or a metro him, down; and, if not, I’ve got a whole seven minutes to take him, or her, down. When Adrian returns, we’ll take a stand against the wolves together. Our very own Alamo, except we’re in Canada, and facing werewolves instead of the Mexican army led by General Santa Anna. I think Bowie and Crockett might have had better odds; at least I think I’m more afraid of four werewolves than I would be of 1,500 men armed with crappy muskets. I saw a shooting ex
hibition involving muskets once; let’s just say the expert missed the target a lot more often than he hit it.

  Despite my fears, Adrian seems confident we can handle the four wolves; the witch is what concerns him. I hope his confidence is based on his actual fighting prowess and it’s not just bravado. He keeps saying he is “the Lycanthrope,” whatever the hell that means. It’s very Trumpesque to boast about yourself in the third person. My biggest concern with this potentially awful plan is that it involves a lot of wishful thinking and only works if all of the wolves follow Adrian. If any of them stay behind, we’re fucked. Or more precisely, I’m fucked . . . possibly dead. I’m hoping the wolves haven’t caught my scent or don’t know or expect me to be here. I know theoretically, they can smell me, I’m praying they don’t recognize my smell. I’ve been told by a bartender, who can turn into a giant fucking bear, and his lizard-like bouncer, I have a very faint but strange scent, and I’m inside a building surrounded by numerous different scents. Specifically, all the dead trophies hanging on the walls. Maybe the wolves won’t identify my scent or mark it as a potential threat. Yeah, and maybe I’ll win the lottery, or a popstar will slide into my DM’s.

  Alternatively, I’ve been considering just walking out into the clearing and offering Adrian up. I don’t really have a wolf in this hunt. I barely even know this Adrian guy, or even really anything about him, other than the fact that he’s wolf royalty, and I’m not even sure that’s a positive trait. Although I’ve never met royalty, I’ve always just assumed all royals were pricks. Prickiness is a prerequisite for being a royal, isn’t it? If not, someone should pass a royal decree, or whatever it is royals do. In all seriousness, I think I’m going soft. My conscience is holding me back from just handing him over. I hate unfair fights and five on one seems a bit unfair, and he did make me a cup of coffee, even if I didn’t get to drink it, so he can’t be all bad. There’s also the possibility that even If I give him up, they’d still try and kill me. #LeaveNoWitnesses. Under that scenario, I sell out a potential ally, a royal one at that, and still end up dead—which is not all that appealing an outcome. As hope-based as my plan is, I think it gives me the best chance of surviving this.