Sheepskin

seize; flamme sacrée

Another part of him wondered, why him? He was tutoring their nephew, what benefit did they have to gain? And Pierre? He was their landlord, for crying out loud. Patient and reasonable, he was a treasure to all of his tenants; killing him wouldn't serve them.

Perhaps one night he saw something he shouldn't.

Only the moon sees what happens beneath the stars, so it may never truly be known what occurred that night, or why.

Victor glanced at the body taking up his hallway. He was a devoted Catholic, as well as a man of science. For the duration of his life, the two beliefs had never clashed before now; the deformity in his hallway defied both. He knew of no religious or scientific text that could bring any sort of rationale as to how this being came to exist. Victor recognised that somewhere, deep within the creature's hide, was a man. What had he done to be bestowed such a curse? To be damned by all things holy and forgiving?

The moment he saw sympathy begin to sprout, he stamped on it like a weed. This man— thing— deserved nothing of the sort. It's responsible for the massacre of dozens, possibly even hundreds. What it deserves is to be cleansed, to be sent back to where it came from; hell.

Victor removed his shirt, tearing off one of the sleeves and tying it around his injured leg, wincing at the pressure. Miraculously, the living room candelabra hadn't set the house aflame, withstanding the fight to the death which had taken place in the other room. In one hand, he lifted the candle from its spot, while his other tugged at the tablecloth, dragging it across the floor behind him.

The strength he amassed in which to heave the beast onto the spread-out cloth, rolling it onto its stomach, required his full effort. After breaking off from his huffing and puffing at the action, shirtless, Victor slung the newly tattered rag over his shoulder, and began to pull. With all his might, at a snail's pace, the hunter and the hunted made distance from the house, into the open air of dawn. The sun had yet to rise, though Victor didn't think it would be long now, a couple of hours at most.

Once in the middle of the garden, Victor dropped the cloth, where wrapped within, was his kill. The scene of his destroyed stable caught his eye, as well as the dead horse sprawled outside. His gaze hardened; another thing he'd have to make disposal of. He hadn't even relayed the rest of his home, knowing the demolition the beast had caused. In a medial span of time, Victor's life had been single-handedly unthreaded by the claws of the Lefevre brothers. The damage would take weeks to repair, and at a high price.

Partially untwisting the tablecloth, Victor slipped out his bottle of wine which he had tucked inside, tossing the cork to the dirt. Taking a mammoth-sized gulp, he carelessly let the excess drip down his chin. He was emotionless to the world around him, feeling nothing but an insatiable urge to watch the beast burn, and that was an urge he was going to gratify.

Tipping the remaining wine over the creature, which he had gift-wrapped for death, the liquid stained the white cloth red, a final ritual before he returns it to its creator. Victor plucked one of the candle sticks from the holder and launched it at the body, setting it ablaze.

"Victor! You y-you— you're alive."

His head whipped in the direction of the voice— the voice of the boy whom he had a million questions for; Émile.

He stood there, disbelief smacked onto his face, beholding Victor as if he were some saving grace. Within seconds, his eyes had widened at the now bonfire, consisting of the smelting flesh of his uncle.