Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by BBC and Showtime. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction.
Author's Notes: For Nokomis, because she asked (demanded) me to write it and I love her. All mistakes are mine.
Please do not archive elsewhere without permission.
Tommy took a long draw off his cigarette as he sized up the American standing just inside the doorway of The Garrison and motioned for Arthur to pour him a whiskey, the Irish stuff, not Scotch. It didn't matter that it was just after nine in the morning. Some business dealings required a stiff drink before it could be conducted.
He liked to do this, size up someone before they spoke. You learned a lot about a person in those few moments of silence. Would this unfamiliar person fidget under the intensity of his stare? Would the person glance away? Dare to speak first? Any one of those thing would tell Tommy a great deal about the man he summoned to Birmingham.
The gentleman in the doorway was doing the same exact thing to him.
The man stood patiently, bowler hat in hand, one eyebrow cocked in defiant question, dressed neatly in shades of brown and slightly out of fashion. Everything about him was brown from his suntanned face to his chin length lanky hair and close cropped beard. His eyes were dark and fathomless, piercing as he watched and waited. He didn't look much past his early-thirties, but Tommy knew better if the stories were to believed.
And he had cause to believe them.
It made him thankful for the rosary in his jacket pocket, not that it would do him any good should something go amiss. Aunt Polly had insisted when he consulted her about his dangerous plan.
"Mr Chandler," Tommy said for starters, "or is it Mr Talbot you go by these days?"
"Chandler's fine," the American answered tersely.
"You're a difficult man to find, Mr Chandler." Tommy downed the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on the polished counter with a loud thunk in the silence of early morning in a pub.
"It's intentional."
"Probably wise for a man such as yourself." Tommy could see plainly the meaning of his words were understood. "I went to a good deal of effort and expense to locate you."
"Would you like to tell me what you called me for so I can be on my way," Chandler stated in no uncertain terms. "I've got someone waiting."
"Miss Ives I presume."
Chandler started, then stopped. "Pardon my asking, but what the fuck do you want?"
He nodded to his brother to fill his glass again before getting on with the conversation. "Mr Chandler, you've a very specific skill set in which I'm interested."
"I can't think what that might be, Mr Shelby."
"I think you do," Tommy said amiably, sensing this is not the first time the American has had this sort of conversation. He didn't know if that made it better or worse. "Arthur, pour the man a drink then go see if John needs help."
"John don't need help this morning," Arthur groused as he did as he was told, pouring a second whiskey neat. "I told you I could handle this m'self."
Tommy had to bite back a bitter retort, not wanting to show his guest just how tightly strung he was. "We're going to handle this my way. Now go see to John," he stated, this time with thinly veiled threat behind it.
His brother started to protest, but thought better of it after a long look at Chandler before disappearing through the door to the backroom. The problem with Arthur was he allowed his emotions (and his demons) to rule him. He'd never gotten over Tommy usurping the family business when he'd returned from Flanders and that was a problem. Something was going to have to be done with him sooner rather than later as he was becoming more unmanageable and that was something Tommy could ill afford going forward if he wanted to move into legitimate business ventures.
"Please, have a seat, Mr Chandler." He motioned to the barstool next to his. It made him a little uncomfortable being in such close proximity to a man like the one still darkening the doorway, but he had learned long ago how to quell the instinct to flee in the face of danger.
Fear was for sopping pussies or so his commanding officer had drilled in his head on a near daily basis, or at least until a German shell had gotten the better of Major Gillian one blistering hot late August morning seven weeks into the bloody campaign at Somme.
"I'd rather stand, thanks."
Tommy lit another cigarette to steady his nerves. "You've got a certain reputation."
"Unfounded rumors, nothing more," the other man said tightly.
"Funny thing about rumors," Tommy drawled slowly, starting to circle around the kill, "they're very often rooted in truth. It is my understanding that you've been mixed up in some bloody business in London in the past. Unexplainable things."
Chandler shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other, almost as if he was itching to dart out of the front door. "I can't imagine what sorts of things you're implying."
"But I think you can. I know your sort."
"My sort?" Chandler huffed, clearly offended.
"Yes, in the war, in France, in the trenches, there was an American serving with the Canadians. He was from someplace out west he said, a wild place, Indians, dark forests. Danvers was his name."
Even then, four years on, the carnage in the German bunker could still turn his stomach if he gave it much thought. Tommy was no stranger to violence, brutal violence at that, between his upbringing and the war, but that eerily quiet and bloody morning defied logic. The Germans had been slaughtered, there was no other word for it, throats ripped out, entrails strewn everywhere, blood, so much fucking blood it'd turned the packed earth of the trench into ankle deep mud. It was as if a nightmare creature had crawled out of the fiery pits of hell to feast upon them all in the silvery light of the moon.
"I don't see what this has to do with me," Chandler stated, drawing Tommy back from that distant battlefield to the present.
"He was like you," Tommy said quietly. "Danvers."
"There's a lot of Americans and we're all not all alike, Mr Shelby."
"Evasive. Deliberate. Dangerous."
"Are you sure you're not describing yourself?"
"No, but you and Danvers share a very unique trait."
Chandler checked his pocket watch. "Can we get on with this? My wife, she's waiting."
Tommy had to admire the man for his self-control. They were a kindred spirit of sorts. The things they could accomplish together could be limitless that is if he could bring this Ethan Chandler to his side. Quietly of course. It would not do to be openly associated with his sort if the whispers out of London were true.
"I have a proposition for you," he said curtly. "Darby Sabini has a small farm near Kempton Park where he stables his race horses. I would like to see those horses removed from competition. I will make it worth your while."
Chandler snorted. "And what exactly do you want me to do?"
"Destroy Sabini's operation for me," he said the words with a wry smile. "I cannot in anyway be associated with whatever happens."
"You want me to shoot an entire stable of race horses?" Chandler asked, incredulousness laced his voice. "Do you know how much attention the noise would create?"
"I was thinking of something a bit more subtle as it is my understanding that you have been connected to fantastical and unexplainable acts. I want this to be one of those."
"Mr Shelby, it has not been a pleasure meeting you," Chandler said with a curt nod before he put his hat back on. "Do not try to contact me again."
"I know what you are!" he shouted, coming up off the barstool as the other man started out the door.
Chandler was visibly angry when he turned around, face red and dark eyes narrowed, hand still on the door handle. "What did you just say?"
"I know what you are." Tommy put his hands in pockets to hide the shaking.
"Which is?"
Tommy couldn't believe he was going to say the word out loud, something he could scarcely bring himself to think lest it be true, and it came out as a hoarse whisper: "A werewolf."