Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twenty Eight

Standing at the open doorway, I breathed the tantalising hint of freedom. Like nervous pebbles, the sweat beads fell audibly, a deep swallow of anxiety preceding my hesitant steps across the gritty black hallway. The space between us felt palpable, spanning nine to ten feet—three and a half large strides, four at most. Depending on leg length, it could be a leisurely five to seven paces, taunting with an air of all the time in the world.

Death wasn't in the cards, at least not on my watch. They would've pulled the trigger immediately if that were the case. Being a coward with emotional baggage didn't seem to be their style. I wondered if they stumbled upon something and I had inadvertently found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or perhaps they were tailing me—a part of their twisted game.

I prided myself on being cautious, looking for any vehicle persistently two cars behind me. I looked for movement patterns, like the previous night's motorbike. Still needed to uncover who they were, whether part of a collective tail interchangeable with others. Maybe they were after what I found—something valuable that weighed stone-like in my pocket. My blood boiled, adrenaline surged through my veins, and the age-old choice loomed—flight or fight.

Clutching the mysterious attacker's gun, chambered and ready, I contemplated my options. I could turn and face them, engaging in a standoff. I had never fired a gun in anger, but a strange familiarity told me I knew how. Anticipating the two to three pounds of recoil, not enough to throw my arm but sufficient to signify I had fired.

Alternatively, I might be surprised. A reactionary warning shot could follow my turn. I played devil's advocate in my head—what if I discreetly slid the gun into my waistband? I could adopt the guise of a new detective investigating a cold arson case, and ironically fitting. They might come at me with irrational hatred toward the police, or they could panic and flee. The person behind the gun was male; I could discern his deep, gravelly, husky breathing and his penchant for Benson & Hedges, masked with Ralph Lauren aftershave, a liking for the finer things, possibly on someone's payroll.

Footsteps echoed from upstairs, scraping through the charred carpet and approaching. The uneven walk suggested an injury, old or new; it was hard to discern. A Yorkshire accent resonated from upstairs, authoritarian. The other guy, silent until now, seemed subordinate.

"Well, well, well. Look at what we have here," the Yorkshire voice intoned as he descended, hand sliding reluctantly down the burnt bannister. His stumble revealed a vulnerability. Ignoring the police angle, I tested their temperament.

"It's been a long time coming. So, what's your interest here? Nostalgia? Family memories? Or are you looking to see if there's anything worth it?" They pegged me as a scrounger or one of the returning families. The Yorkshire speaker reached the bottom, his heavier leg stumbling.

"I'm a nobody, me. I was passing and wondered what had happened here. But don't you think it's rude not to introduce yourselves? Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" I quip, choosing a different approach.

"You're right; that was rude. Let's say some people have a vested interest and ask us to keep an eye out. Now, what's in your pocket? What did you find?" They had been watching, making me wonder about the item's significance.

"In my pocket? You don't want that thing. I will tell you now; the cold wasn't pretty. So, other than that," I stalled, buying thinking space. The Yorkshireman approached, and I considered my next move.

"Oh, but you do, and you know it. So, what's your actual interest here? I ask again, what did you find?"

"Told you, just passing. Found? Does blood count?" My mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.