One

The Dispatcher

It was just about an hour before dawn, and the garrison was going to sleep.

Several of the hunters were still milling about the courtyard, tending to gear, polishing weapons, or else drinking or playing dice. But many had ended their games for the night, put up their gear and stabled their horses. Many were heading back to their chambers for the night.

Two men, seated near the gates to the garrison, were not.

"Where is he?" The smaller of the two men cast a glance upward, at the pre-dawn gray sky, frowning. "It's almost dawn."

"Easy, Athos." The bigger of the two men seemed far more at ease than his companion, leaning back and putting his battered boots on the table. A half-empty bottle of wine sat at his elbow, and he grabbed it, bringing it to his lips and taking a long sip. "He'll be back. He always comes back."

"He's never gone this late." Athos ran a hand through his mop of dark-brown hair. "At this rate, he's going to miss the gate closing."

"He'll be fine." The bigger man shook his head. "Besides, even if he misses the gate closing, it's not like it's a big deal. I'm sure there'll be a stable hand about or something to let him in."

"Or he could decide that, instead of trying to get in and sleep in his own bed, he could go find someone else's bed to go sleep in for the day," Athos remarked. "Do you really trust him by himself in the middle of the day in Paris, Porthos?"

Porthos snorted. "Oh, he'll be fine. You worry too much."

Suddenly, there was a snort from outside the gates – a horse's snort. Athos sat up straighter at the sound, and Porthos shook his head, grinning and lowering his feet from the table.

"See? Told you he'd be back."

A black-clad blur came galloping through the gates, startling everyone still in the courtyard. The rider reared the horse, a gorgeous black stallion, about in the middle of the yard, tugging on the reigns to still the animal. A pair of cunning chocolate-brown eyes peered out from under the wide brim of the rider's hat, and as he pulled down the mask concealing the lower half of his face, he broke out into a grin.

"And lo, a cry goes out as he, the mighty Dispatcher, returns!" he called, to the amusement of the few hunters still in the yard. As he dismounted, a scattered applause went up. Leaving his horse in the confident hands of the stable boy, he sauntered over to his two friends waiting by the gates. As he approached, Athos rolled his eyes.

"The Dispatcher? Really, Aramis?"

Aramis smirked, whisking his hat off to run a hand through his sweat-dampened black curls. "They wouldn't call me that if I wasn't so good at what I did."

"Aramis, nobody calls you that," Athos said, rolling his eyes.

"In fact, as I remember, you started calling yourself that," Porthos added. Aramis frowned, sticking out his bottom lip in a childish pout.

"You two are absolutely no fun," he said.

"Did you get your prize?" Athos asked.

"Athos, please." Aramis reached into a pouch at his waist, pulling out a handful of bloodied teeth, all sharp and pointed and lethal. "When I do not get my prize?"

"Oh, I can think of a time or two…"

Aramis snorted, pocketing the teeth. "Yes, a time or two after…what, eight, nine years of this? I think I've earned myself a title like The Dispatcher. I am so good at dispatching these things to hell, after all."

"Yes, yes, you're so good at it," Athos said, shaking his head. "All fear the mighty hunter Aramis."

"Hey, let him have his moment," Porthos said, nudging his tousled-headed friend, before slinging an arm around Aramis's shoulders. "Werewolf?"

"Oh yes. My favorite kind of kill," Aramis said, grabbing the bottle of wine from the table and taking a deep drink.

"Well, details!" Porthos snatched the bottle, drinking.

"Well, I was a few miles out from the city when I met the nasty beast," Aramis began, snatching the bottle back. "Easily seven and a half, maybe eight feet tall, big and bulky, all snarling teeth and black fur. He tried to bite me a few times, but fortunately, he never quite got past the armor. He did grab me from my horse, though, and nearly got my musket away from me, but, in the end, the Dispatcher always gets his prey."

"You're so insufferable sometimes, you know that, right?" Athos reached for the bottle in the middle of the table, bringing it to his lips and drinking. He shuddered as he swallowed. "God, this stuff tastes like piss."

"Then why are you drinking it?" Porthos asked, reaching for the bottle. Athos held it a little closer, taking another drink.

"Because I need it to get through Aramis's stories."

"Ah, excuse me." A young boy – one of the messengers employed by the garrison – approached their table cautiously with wide eyes. "You three are Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, yes?"

"None other." Aramis inclined his head to the boy, who couldn't have been any older than twelve and looked absolutely dumbstruck. "What can we do for you?"

"I-I have a message from Captain Treville. He wants to see you three in his office now."

"All three of us?" Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, who seemed equally as confused as he was. "But only Aramis was out on assignment tonight. Porthos and I were merely out on patrol."

"He asked to see all three of you," the boy said. "He didn't tell me any more than that."

"Well, then," Aramis said, standing and grabbing his hat, sweeping it back onto his head. "Best not keep the captain waiting, then."

The three of them swept up the stairs, to the end of the overhanging walkway, where the door to Captain Treville's office had been left ajar. Athos knocked on the door, two short, quick raps.

"Come in, come in – and close the door behind you."

They filed in, Aramis closing the door after he stepped in. Captain John Treville's office was dark, lit only by a handful of candles on his desk. The desk itself was strewn with maps and various letters, which looked as though he'd made an attempt to organize them and then given up halfway through. The captain was a man nearing fifty, but he still carried himself with the bearing of a soldier half his age – even sitting in his chair his back was ramrod straight and his shoulders were squared. He looked up from the letter he was poring over, setting it aside at the sight of his three best-ranked hunters.

"Good evening, Captain Treville," they greeted in unison.

"Status report," he said.

"The streets are quiet," Athos said, shrugging. "I patrolled from here to the palace to Notre Dame and found nothing."

"I caught some rumors in a tavern about some kind of spirit at some church near the outskirts of the city," Porthos said. "Rode out there but didn't find anything."

"Well, keep an eye on that," Treville ordered. "Aramis, did you find the werewolf I sent you for?"

"Of course," Aramis said, reaching into his pouch again and drawing out the teeth. "Brought you a little souvenir, Captain. I don't think he'll be needing them."

"Ah, yes…thank you, Aramis," he said, watching with mild disgust as Aramis deposited the bloodied lycanthrope teeth on his desk.

"What do you need us for, Captain?" Athos said. "The messenger said you wanted to see us."

"I've been getting some letters, from a correspondent at the palace," Treville explained. "He writes that he keeps feeling a presence about the palace – a threatening presence, and it worries him."

"All right," Aramis said. "Ghost?"

"Hard to say," Treville said. "The letters are vague."

"So why are we concerned?" Athos asked, casting a glance over Treville's shoulder, at the narrow window behind his desk. The sky was getting lighter, the gray shot through with pink now. He wanted to leave. He wanted to head back to his room. His stomach was starting to hurt, and he just barely managed to conceal his grimace with a bored look. "If the letters are so vague, what is there for us to be concerned about?"

"Because this is at the palace," Treville said. "This is a matter of the safety of the King and Queen. And therefore, it's a matter of my personal concern. Tomorrow night, I'm putting the three of you on patrol at the palace."

"All right," Aramis said, nodding. "Never been inside the palace."

"I didn't think they'd let the likes of us in," Porthos remarked with a chuckle.

"The Queen might faint dead away if she sees how dirty our boots are," Aramis snorted.

"Cardinal Richelieu will see to it that you are welcomed into the palace," Treville said. "He understands the importance of protecting the King and Queen from the creatures we deal with – Satan's familiars, he calls them. Speaking of him – " He cast a pointed look to Aramis. "You need to go see him, he's downstairs in the chapel."

"Why do I need to go see him again?" Aramis asked.

"To get his blessing for your successful mission. You know the routine, Aramis." Treville stood, nodding respectfully to them. "Dismissed. Rest up for your mission tonight."

They all nodded respectfully to him, departing his office for their respective destinations – Aramis to the chapel to see Richelieu, Porthos and Athos to their quarters across the garrison. Athos hurried ahead of Porthos a few steps, his strides determined. He had to get back to his room. His chest felt horribly tight, and the pain in his stomach made him feel like he'd been punched. He had to make it back to his room. Every step felt like a mile…

"Easy, slow down," Porthos called, jogging to catch up with him. "You okay?"

"Fine," he said, forcing himself to slow down, though slowing down made him want to scream. "Just…eager to get to bed. Long night."

"I hear you on that," Porthos said, stopping at his door. "Until tomorrow night, Athos. Goodnight."

"You too, Porthos."

He waited until his swarthy friend had disappeared into his room, then took off for his own quarters at a half-run. He threw the door open as soon as he got to it, ducking inside and slamming the door shut. With the thick shutters closed and the curtains drawn over the shutters, the room was pitch-black, but it didn't bother him. He leaned against the door, doubling over, clutching at his stomach and gritting his teeth to hold back an agonized groan.

Oh God, no, no, hold it together, hold yourself together…

He grabbed an empty bucket from near the foot of his bed, hanging his head over it in just enough time to vomit the wine he'd just drank not even fifteen minutes earlier. The act left his stomach burning, his entire body aching – and did nothing to kill the hunger that had set in deep. Once he was sure he was done, he drew back the drapes and unlatched the shutter, sticking the bucket outside the window – he knew nobody would question the half-digested wine in it, they'd just wash it and fill it with water for him – and closing the window back up again, stumbling over to his bed and sinking down onto it, rubbing his face.

It was times like these he felt far older than his twenty-seven years. Five years, and he still couldn't stomach it, no matter how hard he tried. This wasn't as bad as it had been. He'd come a long way in five years. But still…it was only by sheer force alone that he'd gotten this far.

He groaned, lying back on his bed, hands cradled under his head, staring up at the ceiling. The sun was coming up – not that he could tell through the darkness of his room, but he just knew it was. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the hunger burning in his stomach. Breathing deeply, in, then out. Focusing on anything but that…

It wasn't working.

With a groan, he rolled over, burying his face into his pillow. If nothing else, he could use it to muffle his screams of frustration.