the other Son

Chapter 43

The night had crawled upon the town silently, slithering through the streets and alleys with frigid grace.

The day had waned with a dreamy, cotton candy pink sky full of soft clouds and golden rays of fading light and the slim, white bodies of gannets leisurely circling above the cobalt blue sea, the black tips of their wings like brushes dipped into paint and just waiting for the right moment to apply the first stroke.

As soon as the light disappeared entirely the birds had settled on the rocky cliff side where they built their flimsy nests during the warmer months, remarkably unbothered by the tourists' gawking, and the sky became a solid mass of black.

The town was quiet and just the blueish flicker of his downstairs neighbour's TV cast some light out into the alley in front of Tristan's home. At half past eleven even this last sign of life was flicked out.

Tristan sipped his second cup of coffee. Tousled strands of hair hung in front of his eyes and occasionally he pushed them back with an irritated gesture only for them to fall forwards soon after.

He was hunched over the kitchen table, the documents his mother had sent spread out across the wooden surface. Copied book pages complemented by her own handwritten notes, the letters flowy and elegantly leaning to the right in a perfect, physical representation of her spoken accent.

He didn't need to be Moirai to understand most of it – anticipating him to follow in her footsteps, she'd early on shared knowledge and secrets with him, only to be disappointed by the shy tendrils writhing underneath his skin, his father's legacy staining his round cheeks. The lessons had abruptly stopped but it hadn't kept Tristan out of the library.

Sometimes he wondered if his mother's blatant disregard had enticed the inhuman to grow stronger than it was supposed to be, either to spite her or to prove her wrong and thus regain her love and attention because how could one ignore something so compelling and ruinous?

Now the wisps of knowledge he'd snagged in a bid to get her approval back were going to save Beran's life. The stupid Detective better played along with their deal.

Tristan rose from his seat and through the gaps in the blinds threw a glance at the house across the street.

Obviously tourist season had been over for quite some time now and Eddy's holiday apartment wasn't booked and the ferryman hadn't asked any questions why Tristan needed the keys. When he'd installed the alarm in the afternoon he'd tested how long it took him to get down the stairs and across the street and was pleased as it was barely a minute. A minute to catch a killer.

Only eight days had passed between Guttman's death and the next victim, a staggeringly short amount of time that put any other damn serial killer to shame. Jonathan Walsh's name prominently in every newspaper must've triggered the killer although they might not show up on the first night. The murderer wasn't patient but instead driven by impulse and the need to make the old friends suffer.

Tristan was reluctantly impressed by the focus and determination.

He checked his phone and sat back down, adjusting the papers as the clock struck midnight. It was going to be a long fucking night.

His mind was filled with other side and splinters and sacrifice when his phone buzzed. His eyes flew to the window and he fumbled for the device, realizing doltishly late that the alarm hadn't gone off and instead there was an incoming call on the screen. If this was fucking Beran calling he'd choke him to death with the very documents supposed to save his ass.

"Hello?"

"How's it going, Tristan?"

He raised his brows at the pally greeting. "Depends on who's there."

"Finnegan – am I so easily forgotten?" There was humour in the werewolf's voice.

"What do you want, Finnegan," Tristan asked bluntly and sat back down, pushing his hair back.

"Do I want something?"

"It's the middle of the fucking night, wolfman, you better have a good reason."

Finnegan's laugh crackled through the line. "So charming."

"Don't you have a moon to howl at?"

"Nah," he drawled. "Full moon's in two weeks."

Tristan cleared his throat pointedly. He might appreciate Finnegan's ability to think on his own and question his Alpha Thyra, something most werewolves were entirely incapable of with their blind pack loyalty, but he wouldn't put up with fucking pointless conversation at quarter past three when he had better things to do.

"Did you find your man yet?" Finnegan inquired with a slightly more serious air to his voice.

"No."

"I'm fairly sure it's a man."

A pregnant pause.

"Come on, Scooby-doo, spill the beans."

The surprised laugh morphed into coughs and the wolf had to clear his throat several times before he replied, "Good one, especially in the middle of the fucking night. How should I call you then? Kaa? Nagini? Sammy?"

"Sammy?" Tristan scoffed offended.

"Sesame Street," Finnegan clued him in, probably with a shit eating grin on his face. "You must've had a dull childhood if you never watched it."

"I do understand having your kind represented in the media was important for your childhood even if it was via mothy furries." Tristan ignored the new bout of incredulous laughter. "What makes you so certain it's a man?"

"You'd be the grumpy guy in the dumpster," Finnegan determined. "But enough childhood trauma; I was busy doing wolf things – chasing my tail, sniffing butts, the usual – when I remembered something about that night. It's a man because I heard him speak."

Tristan didn't bother pressing for more, simply let the seconds pass. Finnegan had already called him therefore his decision to share the information was fixed and there was merely the question of the price.

"The killer, he mumbled a mantra, a prayer or some kind of singsong."

Thoughtfully, Tristan narrowed his eyes and tried to fit the morsel into what he knew so far. "Did you make out the words?"

"No, I wasn't close enough."

"Aren't you supposed to have super hearing?"

"I'm a dog not the FBI."

Tristan chuckled softly. "A shame, Lassie."

"You owe me a beer at that pretty bar you work at."

He furrowed his brows sceptically. "For that crumb of information?"

"Yeah," Finnegan agreed. "But mostly for all the dog puns."

"You're going to be piss-drunk by the end of the night," Tristan stated matter-of-factly.

"I'll bring a leash so you can lead me home."

"Kinky."

"I blame it on Sesame Street." 

There was a reply on the tip of his tongue when the sotty black night outside was disturbed by the barely there glow of light. Finnegan's 'Tristan?' prompted by his lack of words was cut short as his phone began to buzz once more and he sprung into action.

One minute to catch a killer.