As it happened, luck was on Fenton's side. He did not learn anything useful the next day, but the day after that, when he stopped for supper and began once more encouraging the locals to tell tales of werewolves, he noticed a figure sitting in the corner, watching him. The man did not take part in the storytelling. He wore a long cloak, like Fenton's own, but with a deep hood which hid his features. So close to the mountains, it was chilly in the evening all year round, so the man's dress did not look terribly out of place. However, the style did mark him as different from the other patrons. Fenton was almost certain he was a wizard.
Sure enough, when the family he had been sharing stories with moved on, the man came to sit beside him.
"Is it only tales of wolves you're looking for?" he asked in English.
Fenton peered at him through the dim, smoky light of the pub. The man did not look at him, but gazed disinterestedly across the room, as if he were only passing the time in small talk. His features beneath the hood were oddly waxen. His profile might have been handsome, but there was something in the way he moved and spoke that gave Fenton a chill, and made him wonder if his new companion was quite human.
"I'm not just looking for stories," he said.
The man glanced at him. A smile flickered over his pale lips. Fenton thought for a moment that his eyes were red. "You seek dangerous prey."
"Not dangerous this week, are they?" Fenton smirked, summoning up his bravado.
"Perhaps not," the stranger allowed. "Have you ever met one?"
"My grandfather," he informed the man. "Have you ever met one?"
The man's laugh was cold, and stretched his mouth in a way the looked almost painful. "I have met several. I spoke to one only yesterday."
"Where?" Fenton demanded, looking around. "Is he here?"
"Not here," said the man, "but he is staying nearby."
"Take me to him." Fenton glared pugnaciously at the stranger. What if the man was only mocking him? If he was, Fenton would give him a beating he was unlikely ever to forget. The man was tall, and looked older by several years, but Fenton was broader through the chest and shoulders, and making people apologise to him after he broke their noses was one of his hobbies.
"Perhaps I will," said the man, still gazing across the room, as if it were of no concern to him.
"If it's money you want, I don't have any," Fenton warned him.
The stranger laughed his cold laugh again. "I don't want your money, boy."
"Then what do you want?"
"Give me your hand."
That startled him. He was about to refuse, to tell the stranger to fuck off. But then the man looked at him. His eyes were red. They burned right through him, out of a handsome, inhuman face. Fenton gave the man his hand.
There was a sharp, dragging, prodding pain in his head, as if someone were sorting through his brains with long, pointed fingernails. He could not look away or withdraw his hand from the stranger's cold grasp. He could not even move.
At last, the man released him. He smiled at Fenton, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I will introduce you to the werewolf. In exchange, you will do me a favour."
"What sort of favour?" Fenton rubbed his hand against his pant leg. It felt icy cold.
"I do not know yet," said the man. "Someday, I will, and then I will find you. It may be months or even years from now, but I will find you, and you will do what I ask."
"And if I don't?" Fenton asked warily.
The stranger gave him that cold smile again. "I know you, Fenton Gray. I've seen into your mind. I know what manner of man you are. You will enjoy the work I have for you."
Fenton shivered. He had not told the man his name. "All right," he said. Perhaps it was only a trick, and the man was just an eccentric who enjoyed spooking kids. "Take me to him."
They walked in silence down the road leading out of the village. The setting sun was a faint glow on the western horizon, but the half moon was high in the sky, and lit their way. The hooded stranger walked in front, with Fenton a few steps behind. The man did not ask for conversation, and Fenton did not give it. His mind was full of his plans now, which seemed closer than ever before. He had no desire to share those plans with the stranger. He had a feeling the man already knew.
When they were far enough from the village that they could be certain of not being observed, Fenton reluctantly took the stranger's arm. The man Apparated them to a clearing in the forest, in which stood a small cottage. Fenton's guide went to the door and knocked. At first there was silence, then grumbling and rustling, and finally an uneven tap tap tap of footsteps, and the door opened an inch.
"You again? What do you want now?" asked a gruff, heavily accented voice.
The stranger made a small bow. "I met this boy on the road. He is seeking your kind."
"Boy?" the voice growled.
The door opened a few more inches. The man behind it was short and broad, and at least sixty. His face was scarred and he was missing an ear. Leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick, he sniffed at Fenton.
"You are not one of us. Why have you come?"
"My grandfather was luqerbulla," said Fenton.
The man scowled. "Well, I did not turn him. I have never turned anyone."
"I'm sure the one who turned him is long dead, as is my grandfather," Fenton told him. "I only want to talk to you. May I come in?"
"Both of you?" the man asked.
"Only the boy," said the cloaked stranger. "I must be on my way."
He turned to Fenton, who profoundly hoped he was not about to offer him his hand in farewell.
The stranger only bowed his head, saying, "One day we shall meet again, Fenton Gray." Then he was gone.
"Who was that?" Fenton asked, staring at the empty air where the stranger had stood.
The man at the door grunted. "Never got his name. Come in, if you are coming."
The inside of the sparsely-furnished cottage was lit by the stump of a candle, melted into the heavy, scarred wood of a table. There were two chairs, a wood stove with a kettle and pot for cooking, a mattress covered by a rough blanket, a sturdy wooden chest, and a long counter littered with potion ingredients. A haunch of venison hung from the rafters, and bolted into the wall and floor in one corner were a set of heavy iron shackles. Deep gouges scarred the wood around the bolts. They looked fresh. Fenton frowned.
"I told you. I never turned anyone," grunted the man. He filled the kettle from a pitcher and set it on top of the wood stove, muttering a spell to stoke up the fire.
"The man in the cloak said you were staying here," said Fenton. "Are you not from around here?"
"I am Italian. I also speak English," he added, switching languages. "Would this be easier for you?"
Fenton nodded.
"I am called Cesare."
"Fenton."
"You have not said what you want, Fenton."
"I want to know," said Fenton, leaning forwards eagerly. "About your life. What you can tell me. Things I can't read in books."
Cesare waved a hand at the cottage. Fenton noticed the hand was missing two fingers. "You see my life. I have nothing. No family. No friends. A few months in this place, a few months in that place. No one wants the licantropi near them very long. Even foolish young boys know better than getting close."
"People are fools," Fenton shrugged. "My grandfather wasn't a monster. My parents didn't try to keep me away from him. He called me 'pup' and 'cub'. He said I was his pack."
"Then your grandfather was fortunate," said Cesare. He seemed to enjoy having someone to talk to, now that his suspicion had worn off. "To have such a family is not always the way for the licantropi."
"Have you known many others like you?"
"A few." The kettle was steaming, and Cesare busied himself making tea. "There are not so many of us in Italy now, but when I was young, I lived in the piedmont, near mountains much like these. There are still some there. That is where I met the one that turned me."
Fenton nodded. "I don't know if there are any left now in Britain either. That's why I decided to come here. How old were you when you were turned?"
"Twenty-eight years," said Cesare bitterly. "I am an old man now. That animal took my life."
"But aren't you stronger than you were? More powerful?" Fenton asked, frowning.
"In some ways," Cesare admitted. "I can fight a man half my age and win. I can withstand great pain. I heal quickly. I am rarely ill. At times, I can wield powerful magic. In other ways, I am not strong. My body is at war with itself, and I am losing. Tell me, how did your grandfather die?"
"A heart attack," Fenton admitted. "During the full moon."
"And how old was he when this happened?"
"Sixty-four."
Cesare nodded. "Young for a wizard, but not unusual. I, too, will die soon. I have been un licantropo for more than thirty years. Many do not survive so long."
Fenton sipped his tea and did not argue. He had learned as much from his reading, and had sent away to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for the statistics, claiming a school project. Werewolves lived shorter lives on average than most wizards or Muggles. The two most common causes of death were organ failure during transformation and suicide.
"So. I come to this place," Cesare continued. "I look for others like me. A pack. They will take me in, and I will not die alone."
"Why not make your own pack?" Fenton asked. "Thirty years. You could have built an empire in that time."
Anger flashed in Cesare's eyes. "You are a boy who knows nothing. Many do not survive the morsicatura - the bite. You wish their blood on my hands? If they live - I do not wish this life on an enemy. I have lost all. Once I had a wife. She tried to stay, but it was very hard for her. I have not seen her for many years. My father and mother, they were good people. They did not send me away. The town they lived in from childhood turned away from them, and they died of shame and heartbreak."
Fenton was unmoved. "Like I said, people are fools. You never did anything to them, and they turned their backs on you."
"I could have."
"But you didn't. They would have deserved it if you had."
"No." Cesare's fist came down with a thump on the solid wood of the table. "No person deserves such a thing."
"All right," said Fenton mildly, though he disagreed. In his opinion, anyone who did not want such power was a coward or a fool, no matter what the cost, and those who hoarded it all to themselves, treating it as a shameful secret, were little better. "So have you managed to find a pack?"
"No," said Cesare again, quieter this time.
"I was told Central and Eastern Europe were positively crawling with werewolves. Are you saying there are no others around here?"
Cesare grunted. "Europe is a big place. There may be many. They do not make themselves easy to find. There are others here that I have seen, but no pack."
"Still, if there are others nearby, why aren't you with them?" Fenton took a distracted sip of his tea and realised it had gone cold in the cup.
"Many do not trust even others of their own kind." Cesare shook his head. "The nearest is at a farm in the hills above Qerret, ten miles away. A girl. Jehona, she is called. Her family still watch over her. They do not like me to speak to her, but she is different. She comes sometimes to visit me. She will come tomorrow, or perhaps the day after."
"A girl?" Fenton sat up straighter in his seat. From what he had read, most werewolves were adults. Children rarely survived the initial attack. In his head, he began to revise his plans. "What's she like?"
"She is young," said Cesare. "Like you. Eighteen years. A hard worker with a good heart."
"Is she pretty?" asked Fenton, trying to hide the slight disappointment he felt. Younger would have been better. Twelve or thirteen would have been ideal.
Cesare frowned. "She is scarred. Like me. We are all scarred."
Fenton shrugged, giving the man an easy smile. "That doesn't trouble me."
"It should." Cesare's frown deepened. "You will give that girl no trouble."
"Why?" Fenton's smile did not waver. "It's no concern of yours. She visits you. She can visit me, too."
"It is not like that between us," Cesare snapped. "Jehona is a good girl. I do not think your intentions towards her are good."
"I'll leave her alone," Fenton lied, "if you'll do something for me."
The look of suspicion had returned to Cesare's face. "What?"
"Turn me. If you do, I won't go near the girl when she comes. And I'll stay here. As long as you live. You won't be alone."
Slowly, the old man rose to his feet. "Leave this place." His voice shook with quiet fury. "Do not let me see you again. Tomorrow, I will go to Qerret. If I find you there or on the road, I will become very angry."
Fenton got up from his chair, still smiling. He fingered the wand in his pocket. Cesare's wand lay on the counter beside the tea tin. Careless, that.
"I'll go in a moment," he promised, "and you won't see me again."
