The Harvest Moon flashed silvery through the trees giving Tyler Winters a little light to pick his way through the forest north of town, his gun unloaded and the breech exposed as the law required of him an hour after sunset. With the decreased light the rich golds and yellows of the trees had faded to ash, and the carpet of leaves on the forest floor had disappeared into a low-rising fog. The going was slow, and the walk back along the creek toward the old country road where he'd parked his dad's pickup was long. He shivered against the dropping temperature despite the warm jacket he wore.
Tyler had been born and raised in Collins Cove and with the exception of a few trips across the border to Canada to fish with his cousin, and a once or twice a year trip to Bangor with his parents, he'd never been that far from home, and he was pretty happy with that idea. He liked the wild beauty of the north Maine coast. He even liked the harsh winters, and the cool summers. He liked the food. He liked the people. He liked to hunt and fish. He liked being out-of-doors, and he even enjoyed roughing it when the winters got bad.
He knew that most young sixteen year olds in his shoes would be clamoring to get out of the sticks, to some big city. Bangor or Portland at least, if not all the way out to San Francisco where there were a lot of other guys that were like him in other ways. But he was content here. He was seeing someone, maybe not openly, but they spent time together, and they explored another part of nature together, and Tyler was happy with that for now.
In the distance he heard a long deep howl that sent a shiver down his spine. At first he thought it might be a coyote. They were after all, fairly common in the area, usually going after small game like rabbit, and squirrel, sometimes a deer, or even a wounded or sick moose. But this howl was deeper, stronger, and there was a challenge to it that made Tyler's blood run cold.
Unconsciously his hand went to the loaded .45 at his side. Most hunters in in the area carried a sidearm for defensive carry purposes. At sixteen, it was technically illegal for Tyler to have it, but he felt it better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. And the game warden in the area tended to look the other way as long as it was carried in the open, and you didn't make a fool of yourself. This was after all bear season as well, and they were starting to forage heavily before their long winter sleep. Tyler preferred not to be part of the mast of the land.
Picking up his pace, he headed toward his dad's pickup while looking around. The forest had grown silent, and a palpable pall had fallen over the woods as the low fog began to rise from the ground.
Nearby, a low growl came from below a darkened embankment. A cold wind blew down Tyler's neck, and he thought he caught the scent of something dank and musty. Spinning around, a large form loped almost lazily toward him, with an uneasy gait that was part animal, part human. Tyler felt his bowels threaten to give way as he fumbled with the hammer thong for the .45 on his hip and barely got it cleared before the creature was on him.
He fired once, point blank into the slavering maw before it bore him to the ground. The report of the old Colt was like thunder in his face as his vision was suddenly blanketed by a wall of fur and muscle and claw.
Hitting the ground hard, he pulled the gun up tight against his body, pointed it away from him and fired three more times into the mass pinning him to the ground before he was able to roll free and stagger to his feet.
Some part of his mind noted that the huge beast's fur was a golden honey color and was spattered with blood and brains. Looking down at the gun still in his hands, he began to tremble and then shake. Suddenly, his stomach rebelled and he fell to his knees emptying its contents all over the ground nearby as the shadows of madness began to close in around his mind.
When the heaves became dry and cottony, he wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet toward the road, not seeing the beast's head began to stitch itself back together of its own volition. He was halfway there, still holding the Colt in one hand when he was blindsided. This time, he never saw the slow crouch of the giant wolf-like creature when it hit him from behind.
His vision exploded into a thousand lights and he tasted the humus of the cold forest just before powerful jaws closed around the back of his neck, severing his spine. Tyler Winter's last thoughts were that he should have left the woods an hour ago.
For nearly an hour, the creature feasted on the flesh of its kill. It wasn't the kill it wanted. It wasn't the kill it had come here for, but it was here, and it was fresh, and this was now. It's prey would come soon enough. For now though, it had to regain its strength. It had to learn the lay of the land. It had to plan, and it had to stalk. Its rage would not be denied.
Harry was amazed at how seamlessly the wizarding world in America intersected with that of the muggles. Or more accurately, how the arcana intersected with the mortals. There were still several concepts with which he was struggling, but he was catching on rather quickly. He did have an advantage over other wizards who came from Britain as he was raised by muggles... uh mortals and so wasn't quite as lost as most were. Still, it was unnerving to use airplanes instead of a floo-network, and the frequent use of automobiles was something that had him completely flustered.
"You have questions, Harry?" Sandor asked as he drove the late model Ford along the roads from Bangor toward a coastal town called Collins Cove.
"It's a lot to take in," Harry said. "I don't want to offend, but I have a lot of questions."
The dark-haired man turned to him, smiled and said, "Tell you what. Ask what you need to ask, and if you get into an area that's sensitive, I'll let you know. No offense taken."
"I appreciate that," Harry told him.
"I think that's why they put a lot of the newcomers with me. I'm willing to answer questions that others think should be common knowledge." With a smile, he added, "But no advice about women. I don't do women."
Harry raised an eyebrow, "Oh?"
Sandor chuckled and said, "No. Not like that. I mean I don't date women, or men for that matter. If I've got an itch to scratch there are ways of doing it without getting into a relationship. It's easier that way. I'm not going to be any woman's ATM. And, it has the added benefit of annoying Eve."
Harry smiled wanly. "ATM?"
"Uh... machine you go to the bank to get your money from," Sandor said. "I think the mortals in Britain call them cash points. I'm not sure what the arcana call them." Then he smiled and added, "But ask your questions."
"All throughout my ALE courses, and at the headquarters you kept to referring to people without magical powers as mortals. Are the wizards and such of America immortal?"
Sandor chuckled, "There are those who think so." Then shaking his head, he continued, "But no. The primal witches, vampires, and fey are pretty damn close. There are some strains of lycanthropy that render their lifespans fairly long. It's mainly a term to, and I don't mean this as an insult, but to get away from calling them either muggles or non-maj. Mortals themselves refer to themselves as "only mortals". Since we live in a secretly blended society opposed to a secret separate society, we try to work a little harder at getting along. And the American arcana in general and DALE in particular have developed over the past fifty years or so, something they call the Stan Lee philosophy."
"Stan Lee?"
"A mortal who created Marvel Comics. He said that with great power comes great responsibility. The American arcana have embraced that idea, at least officially. They go out of their way to protect the mortals. When they don't , it's our job to step in."
"And are you mortal? You keep saying the Americans, as if it doesn't apply to you."
"I'm an American, naturalized. I'm originally from Austria. And as for being mortal, no. I'm not. I am dhampyr, the offspring of a mortal and a vampire, particularly of the Karnstein line. When I die I will come back as a vampire." Harry detected a tinge of bitterness to his voice.
"I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't," he said.
"You definitely have a more open attitude in your acceptance of werewolves than we do. They have far more rights here than in Britain."
Sandor nodded. "It comes with that Stan Lee philosophy. It's easier to work with the non-human arcana in helping them control themselves than to spend all that energy corralling them. It doesn't always work, but it's better than trying to run roughshod over people we don't always understand."
"Sounds rather progressive."
"Don't let Ed hear you say that. Progressive is a bad word to him. He'll ask you exactly what you're progressing toward, and then use logic and facts to beat you about the head and shoulders with it. We prefer to say that it's common sense."
"That in itself is a magical power," Harry said.
Sandor laughed. "Yes, it is."
"You said Ed was a direct line descendant of both Dracula and Frankenstein?"
"That's not my story to tell, Harry," Sandor said. "He's just the closest thing we have to royalty."
"I understand."
"So, how are we going to proceed with this investigation?"
"Talk to the boy and his father first," Sandor said. "After that, we go over the security measures the father has taken on the boy, and then we go looking for the mother."
"Why do I get the feeling that the mother is going to come to us before we find her?" Harry asked.
"Cynical huh? Smart man."
Harry spent the next hour or so in quiet contemplation considering what his partner had told him. It was a lot to consider, and he realized his new partner was going to be far helpful to him getting acclimated than he got when he went to Hogwarts.