Curse of Ferreus

6 - Wild Dog Problem

Their eyes will slide right over a quiet town free from threats, and their focus will snag on a werewolf pack to take out.

Unbidden, I find myself thinking of the clothes that were all too easy to steal. It makes sense now. If there are werewolves roaming the streets, they'd need quick access to some form of attire. They must've bullied the townsfolk and sales assistants to look the other way or else risk their wrath.

Which means, I realise with a jolt of discomfort, they looked at me and thought I was just another werewolf.

Disgusting.

All at once, I'm hauled from my thoughts and shoved right back into reality.

There's movement in the woods. I watch, frozen, as a man comes wandering out of the shrubs. Shadows cling to his form as he runs his hands through his blond hair to dislodge a few stray leaves. His features appear pinched with discomfort or strain or unwavering focus as his gaze slides clinically across the street. He wears joggers but no shirt, and the defined muscles of his torso ripple with the echo of strain. His form is bulky with muscle, and he walks with steely purpose. As I watch, he hastily shrugs on a top as he crosses the street heading for the alley and the chaos. He is also, most notably, not wearing any shoes.

As if all those clues don't add up to an already obvious and damning conclusion, he's not alone. Two dark wolves melt from the shadows amongst the trees and trot along on either side of him. One of them clutches a pile of crumpled clothes in its mouth. Werewolves— all of them. They're walking right into a town full of witnesses.

"What the fuck?" I murmur, frowning as they disappear around the corner.

Intrigue gets the better of me. Besides, if I want to be rid of these werewolf packs, I can do a lot worse than see what's going on here.

So I get out of the safety of my car and set about following them. It's something of a speciality of mine — drilled into me from childhood — to sneak. I keep a lengthy distance between myself and the man and his wolves, on the opposite side of the street, so I can dart into the shadows and hide should they glance my way. They walk straight down the main high street, not even attempting to hide from any prying eyes, and head for the alley.

Already, there's a police car parked up with its lights glaring into the night. I conceal myself in an empty lane opposite, where I take up a place behind a dumpster and peer through the little sliver of space behind it into the alley.

After a brief, murmured conversation between the werewolf and the police officer (who is either blissfully ignorant of or determinedly ignoring the two wolves at his feet), they come to some sort of agreement and shake hands. The officer gets in his car and drives off without a backwards glance, leaving only the man and the wolves and me in the otherwise abandoned street.

All is quiet and still.

The man releases a sharp sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right, then, folks. Let's see what we have here," he says, turning in a slow circle as he surveys the alley and the mess. His accent is lilting and he rolls his vowels in a pleasant sort of way. "Poor chap."

I watch, pulling a face of vague disgust, as the man leans close and takes a whiff of the brick wall stained with sticky blood. It seems as though werewolves are more animal than man, after all.

"Oh, it's Duskland, alright," he mutters, stepping back with a grimace and a dramatic little shiver. "Bastards. Can you smell that? It's like... silver, almost. If they're using silver on our people, I'm telling Rowan they want a scrap. It's barbaric."

One of the wolves huffs, shaking out its fur and dropping the pile of clothes to the one bit of ground free from blood. The other trots further into the alley, following its nose and a blood trail.