III
Alastor gets himself ready on the evening of the full moon with a sour taste in the back of his throat. Husker almost always agreed to everything he had the fancy to do. Sure, he'd grumble about it and insult him the whole way, but he'd be there. And Alastor would venture to guess that the man secretly enjoyed his company. So his sudden wish to forbid him from having this experience... is strange. It makes him pause to consider actually following that request... Just stay home and write a boring account faking that he'd been there... It would be easy. Too easy. Too boring. Unfulfilling... And that's exactly why the itch under his skin was moving his feet towards the door.
He was already well equipped with a handful of noxious plants in his handy satchel. The wolfsbane and mistletoe might have been pretty to look at, but it was harmful to handle if done poorly. He always wore dark gloves as general practice, so as long as they didn't touch skin past his hands, he'd be right as rain. The other key tool at his disposal was the pure silver knife resting there at the bottom of the bag. A heavy and reliable weapon in it's own right, he'd read that silver was offensive to the beasts vitality. He doubted severely that he'd need any of these either way. Though the seductive allure of the magic and hexes he's already seen do gave the werewolf theories a bit more credence.
His walk through the bayou that evening was much more lazy than the trek with his friend beside him. He'd never been bothered by being alone per say, but he was a true social butterfly by nature. The absence of the sarcastic grunting from behind him is an unexpected ache in his chest. He finds himself missing him even still. As expected, nothing about the vicinity has changed since then either. He's timed the trip to put him at the shack by nightfall on the dot. He'd have little more than a bunch of flowers and a carving knife to protect himself if the monster did show itself. He detests all kinds of dogs as a general rule. But he's never been scared of this creature on paper. The bayou is dreadfully dark in the dead of night, under the thick moss and foliage of greenery. He could only hope his eyes wouldn't betray him. Surely a human sized dog would be noticeable, even in the thick of it.
Something clinks under his shoe—
Alastor looks down to see a foot long length of metal chain glinting in the evening glow. A chain that was definitely not there yesterday when they'd combed through this area. This piece is broken too, he notices as he bends down to pick it up. The links are heavily rusted, as if they'd been underwater or disused for a very long time. Alastor stows the piece of chain in his bag, thinking it might be important evidence of some kind. The bayou is by no means closed to the rest of the public. Though very few venture into them this way, without a boat. So the thought of a hunter losing this is somewhat believable... but not his first guess. He can't help but wonder if Husker is behind this... The man told him he'd embarrass himself doing this. Maybe he'd dress up and try to scare him like kids at a summer camp... Slim though the chance was, Alastor kept his eyes open for any other human life around him after the discovery.
He reaches his little hide-out by the appointed time, closing and barring the door behind him. He's set up thirteen small spools of thread outside the doorway—a ward that some of his sources said could keep the loup-garou from entering the threshold. It must be thirteen of any object, a strange rule to be sure, but he's willing to try everything for the sake of trying. He's got three windows as vantage points, all open to the chilled night air. He realizes that he looks like a fool with a death wish. But additionally, he scatters his extra boxes of wolfsbane and mistletoe all around the small dock surrounding the shack. He'd feel better if he had a little blessed salt too, but that didn't appear as a "werewolf" ward in any of the books he's flipped through.
He sits himself in the wooden chair at the side of the desk. From this spot, he can watch all three windows without fear of being blindsided through an attack at his back. All he's got is the dim yellow glow of the lantern positioned on the table there. He can see into the trees as they start to twist into shadowy silhouettes. The bright orb of the moon is in perfect view, slotted right through the hand-shaped branches. Now all he has to do is wait... Although—it doesn't take nearly as long as he thought it would for the first sign to appear.
A pained scream pierces through the sky.
It's so shrill that he sees all the birds in the trees scatter into a startled flight. It sets Alastor's heart beating at rapid fire. Not because it implies danger—but because that voice is undeniably familiar to him.
"Husker!?"
He hasn't been in his position for more than a few minutes before he's immediately shattering all of his evening's plans of action. That was him—he knows it. And that was a scream fueled by agony. Alastor runs out the door of his hide-out, leaving the door swinging in his wake. It came from... that way! He doesn't care what might be watching or hiding in the dark anymore. Not when his first real friend is in danger. He runs as quickly as he can along the weathered trail in the forest floor. But it's eerily silent now. There are no birds calling or crickets chirping at all, not even the bullfrog drones or bug-like twitters that the bayou is alive with at every other hour of the day. This pure silence makes him feel extremely anxious. There are no more clues as to where he should be looking other than it was somewhere in this direction. Louisiana is always pretty warm, but even so, he can feel the prickles of goosebumps setting up his uncovered forearms. The chill is the surreal kind that comes only from ghosts and specters.
"Huuuuuusssssk!? Harry!?" The taller man was nowhere in sight. The sun was officially down overhead, signaling the coming black veil of a night sky. He catches sight of a subtle clue at his feet, almost missed in his hurry. Alastor kneels down to inspect a foot print. Sure enough, the shoe is bigger than his own by a margin, so it couldn't have been created by himself. Taking this as his ticket, he ventures after the trail of barely visible prints in the mud. He makes it a good deal of paces along before the prints start changing strangely in front of him. Strange in that he'd been sure he was on Husk's trail until the boot print turned into fleshy foot prints, as if the man had foregone shoes altogether and decided to go barefoot. As the trail kept moving, the toe prints shifted too. They became wider almost paw-like indents in the mud of the bayou floor. The heel itself vanished from the marking too. As he stared down at the phenomenon, Alastor considered the possibility that the loup garou had picked up his friend and ran away with him. Or even... ate him. Greatly worried by both of these ideas, the radio host picks up his pace along the darkening path.
He can still see the full moon overhead, bright and imposing. It lights his way as he keeps hiking through the bayou. While it's a place he knows well, it transforms under the guise of nightfall. Every tree and shadow could be his enemy, if he doesn't pay enough attention. Alastor stiffens with another blast of cold chill. He feels rigid with the tension of eyes on him. The hair on the back of his neck is standing up in a way that has nothing to do with the nightly breeze. He hears the beast before he sees it. There is a low guttural growl several paces behind him.
He stops directly where he stands, fear making him freeze. He takes a shaky breath before he turns around. Even though he knows it's there, it doesn't prepare him for the actual sight of the creature. It's beautiful in an ethereal and violent way. It stands much taller than himself, at a humanoid stance despite it's lanky animal-like limbs. From what he can tell, it's a mockery of a wolf, utterly covered in dark hair. The fur is such a deep shade of raven black that it blends into the dark shadows between the trees. While it has the general body of a man standing upright, it is hunched over in a way that makes it impossible to tell just how big it really is at a glance. It's legs bend backwards below the knee, far more angled than any domestic cat or canine. The jutting limbs lead down into large clawed paws. Both of it's large ears are flared back slightly. It's furred tail flicks behind it in a defensive position, and if body language is correct on all these accounts, it's prepared to pounce as soon as Alastor dares to move.
But he can't move. He stares with intense focus into it's glowing gold eyes. It's staring back at him with the exact same passion. There is a margin of familiarity in the creature's eyes, at the same time it flicks it's ears towards it's human prey. Alastor doesn't mean to do it, but he takes one step backwards. The wolf tenses where it stands, and his heart hammers in his chest with panic. He knows he won't live, and especially not if he shows the creature his back. But he does. Out of sheer human panic. His fight or flight instincts force him to spin on his heel and run as fast as his feet can carry him in the other direction. There is a distinctive shrill howl right behind him, and he knows the wolf is chasing him. He can hear it's intense speed pound into the dirt, rather than see it behind him.
He's never been afraid of anything in his whole adult life. No ghost, demon, voodoo spirit or otherwise could even make him blanch. But this creature scares him.
"No! No! No! Harry!? HARRY! Where are you!?" He realizes distantly that he's crying. There is no one to see it but the night and the werewolf behind him. His fear isn't even for himself, but for the safety of his best friend in the face of this very real terror. He's thrown clear off his feet a mere moment into his desperate attempt for escape. The creature is on him in seconds. It sweeps him off his feet with such speed that the world blurs by in an instant. His back hits the grass, back of his head smacking into the ground and making his teeth rattle painfully. More concerning are the heavy paws that pin his arms down over his head. The wolf straddles him, heavy and commanding a force he can't escape from. He has no choice but to peer up at its dripping maw as it stares him down. The creature's intense stare is the only thing he can see, probably the very last thing he will ever see.
"H-Harry... please be safe... Wherever you are Harry... Please... Please..." He whispers the mantra. The wolf is quiet over him for a moment. It doesn't tear into his body like he assumed it would. Instead, it presses it's nose against his chest. His heart beat races at such a rapid clip and Alastor stares in cold shock. The wolf noses along his chest, inhaling his scent through the fabric. It's not as feral as he imagined it would be, and this is almost worse. Soon the large muzzle of the beast is at his neck. Alastor twists his head to the side with a soft gasp. It's nose is cool and slightly wet against his skin. He can't think straight when he feels it's hot breath against his pulse point. He expects it to bite down and maul into his flesh. What actually happens is beyond his comprehension.
The wolf licks his neck.
It's large pointed teeth just barely scrape against his skin. The moist heat tears a startled gasp out of Alastor. His face blazes red, embarrassment at being toyed with. All hope of a dignified death is out of the question now. Not with the beast tasting him like this before it kills him and strips the flesh away from his bones. He's distantly aware of the irony... that being eaten would be his way out of this world. Those thoughts are broken apart as he feels the needlepoint of fangs prick into his skin. In the next second, it's teeth bite down gently into his neck. It takes it's sweet time to bare down with light pressure and suck a bruise into him, almost like a love bite. Alastor shudders at the feeling. He wants it off of him, but he can't move beneath it's grip. The monster's teeth nip into his bow tie, as if it wants the fabric gone. Like a cat with a new toy, it keeps it's attention squarely fixed on him. It continues to nose and sniff all over him until it nips down harder into his throat.
"AH!"
Seized by an instinctual surge of terror, Alastor fights to get his hands free of the wolf's grasp. It's paws are pressed down hard on his thin wrists, claws digging into the pale flesh above his gloves. The beast growls at his resistance, but it doesn't lash out, he notices. If he can get his satchel open... he could use the werewolf repellents and possibly escape this bizarre fate. He tries moving his legs first. The only leeway he can manage is to draw up both knees part of the way. It works as a small separation barrier, though it doesn't get him any more free than before. It's enough to distract the wolf though. He can't see it's face very well at all, only the eerie glow of it's goldenrod stare. He manages to slide his left arm free of its furred confines. He swallows and moves his hand slowly, so that the wolf doesn't catch it's movement as the threat that it is.
The very second his hand closes around the handle of the knife, he swings his arm back and up to jab the blade into the creature's shoulder. The pressure it takes is unbearable. It's skin tough and durable. But the small silver weapon slits past fur and finds its mark. He can feel drops of blood spattering down on him, but he grits his teeth and keeps his hand steady. Then he draws back and takes another swing at it, and another, hacking right through the fur with as much strength as he can muster. The beast unleashes a terrible snarl at him, but it gets off of him to get away from the pain. The knife shanks out of flesh with a thick dripping of blood that he hadn't expected there to be so much of. The injury on the creature steams like hot water. Alastor doesn't waste any time. He secures his freedom by getting off the ground and backing away from the werewolf. He's breathing heavily, and he can barely recognize it as his own voice.
Not when the the creature makes another jump at him.
He can physically see the glint of it's claws reaching out to encircle him. The sharp ends gnash right into Alastor's arm as he twists to get away. The sting burns hot, blood dripping out of the wound in thick drops onto the mud. He cries out at the sudden heat of it, but he has no time to staunch the blood. All he's got is his knife. It's a pale comparison to the sword or gun he'd prefer in this case. But he's not shy of danger. So he doesn't back down. His free hand digs into the bag again. Fingers enclosing around petulant flower petals, he launches them at the wolf's broad chest. Alastor had been skeptical that it would work—but the werewolf stops and backs away from the flowers. Tail tucked between it's legs in discomfort, it keeps it's eyes trained on him. Alastor starts running again, this time with more confidence in surviving this ordeal. He can hear the creature howling after him though. Heavy padded feet on the slick muddy floor as it goes around the mess of flowers.
Alastor feels high on adrenaline. Every time the wolf gets close, more petals are thrown out. He runs out very quickly at this pace—but he makes it back to his shack and pounds across the dock to throw himself inside. He slams the door closed and bars it shut with the chair—but he's fairly sure the monster could bash it open if it really tried to. In fact, he can see it pacing around outside. It doesn't come any further though. The wolfsbane and mistletoe he's scattered around the building... those must have worked. Otherwise, it's toying with him in some genius and cruel game.
Now that he finally has a second to rest, he crawls onto the desk with his back to the wall. He holds his dripping wet arm in one hand and the handle of red coated silver knife in the other as tries desperately to catch his breath. His neck is all bloody and bruised, but that's a surefire improvement to losing a limb or getting his head bitten off. He can't calm his nerves at all. Normally there's an iron wall of willpower around controlling his own emotions. But now there are hot tears streaming down his face and blurring his glasses up. He's trembling violently. He's not sure he could actually fight off the creature again if he had to, and the uncertainty only adds to the tremors of icy fear racking through his system.
Harry...
If Harry was out there, what happened to him? He didn't have any ways of protecting himself. What if he'd changed his mind and tried to join his friend, only to get caught by that furry beast outside?
Alastor chokes on a sob.
The loup-garou makes a whimpering sound outside too, almost like a response to it. The radio host can barely pay attention to it anymore. Only enough to ensure that it doesn't try to kill him again. The werewolf waits out there for several hours. He knows because his weary eyes are fixated on it the entire time until they're sore and trying to close on their own. The beast falls asleep once or twice, but Alastor himself is wide awake and observant the entire time no matter the temptation to give into the exhaustion. It's a miserable several hours of his life. He feels sick to his stomach and nauseated beyond belief. He's got no concept of time anymore until the thick layer of darkness outside shifts to a gleaming yellow over the weeds.
The werewolf gets up and runs off back into the bayou as soon the sun comes up over the marsh water. It's completely vanished after that. There's not so much as a clue that it had been laying there right across from him. He looks over towards the mango colored sunrise and figures it must have gone away for now. Just as the myths suggest, the brunette muses. And with that, the full moon is gone and the hunt for the loup-garou is finished too. Ordinarily, this would be a highlight for him. He's seen the mythical beast and lived to tell the tale. In another place and time he would already be asking questions and trying to make sense of the mystery. He could be smiling ear to ear and singing it's praises. But there is no smile of triumph on his face. He can't bring himself to do it.
...
"Achhhh—fuck—"
"Hold still, you big baby."
Husk does as Charlie instructs of him. He's seated in her kitchen that hot morning, as she leans over him in deep concentration. He kept flinching, or banging his hand on her nice wooden table. And every time he did, she'd give him a pointed look about it. But in his defense, his shoulder is on fire with searing pain. It's so much worse than any bullet he could have taken from a good old fashioned boot-legging. Normally, he might try to power through a wound like this... but the small fever had already set in. He'd been unbelievably dizzy from it. With this in mind, as soon as he woke up this morning his first order of business was to see their resident nurse friend for the bloody mauled stab wounds. Her tender care had him injected with morphine before the amateur operation, but she was stitching his skin back together now. That wound wouldn't heal that well on it's own.
His memories of last night were... hazy at best. They always were, of course. But some nights were definitely more lucid than others. And this is the one he would have paid to be lucid for. Some of it won't go away from where it chills into his fingertips and throbs behind his eyes. He can still feel the buzzing tension under his skin. The black and white memories of his dream won't stop replaying like a film reel. The tunnel vision makes Alastor glow orange against the dull and dimmed backdrop of his mind. He can still see him running away fruitlessly. He can feel the weight of pinning him down as sure as if he's got his hands on him now. It gets him sighing out loud with total exasperation. Worse yet, he can feel Charlie's eyes on him through the whole thing even without looking at her.
"So what got you this time?" she prods. He expected it, of course. But his tongue is still feeling like cotton in his mouth from that injection. He glances at her with his eyes half narrowed in warning though.
"Just picked up an extra job for Mimzy. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Char."
"Oh excuse me," she rolls her eyes, "I should have known. You do look worse than usual though. Was it really that tough?"
"Heh... Yeah. The guy was so scrawny, I guess I underestimated him..." He quirks a small smile for it. But it's only a short-lived flash of fondness, smothered by the pressing worry that follows it. He turns his face away from Charlie deftly, looking instead at the green tiled floor of the kitchen. The sun coming through the window added a cheerful glow to the space at his feet. He can't help but wince as Charlie yanks a little on the thread she's tying his shoulder up with. It's a brutal hiss held back into his teeth. He's not even squeamish about needles, but the repeated poking into the sensitive injured flesh nearly had his eyes rolling back of discomfort. But at least Charlie is finished with the thread by then, and sets the tools aside to dab some kind of clear liquid over the sealed wound. She even goes the extra mile to spread a white bandage over the gaping injury, in the hopes to keep it sealed shut and free of bleeding. Her hands are slow and careful, and even though her eyes are focused on the mending, he can tell her mind is anything but.
"Is something wrong, Harry? You look like you're thinking too much," she finally says through the quiet. He debates about whether or not he should tell her anything. But the gnawing feeling inside his chest takes control over any thought he can come up with.
"I... fucked up with Alastor..."
"What did you do to him?"
"Well that's..." he pauses to run a hand over his hair like an anxious ball of stress, "I'm fuzzy on all the details... But I know I scared him. Badly."
"Damn. Too many drinks last night?"
"Something like that... I don't know that the fuck to do about this..."
"Tell him it was just a mistake. That's the truth, right? He's not the type to hold grudges. So I'm sure he'd forgive you for whatever happened."
Charlie stops wrapping his freshly treated shoulder to look him in the eyes. It's only then that she notices the dark circles beneath them and she's smart enough to know it means he isn't taking care of himself. The slouching set to his shoulders is a normal look for him. But something about the downtrodden look to his eyes makes it seem much more tired than usual.
"Harry..." Charlie continues hesitantly, "You know you can trust me with anything, right?"
Husk breathes a heavy sigh. He hunches forward a little in the chair and threads his hands together at his lap. The pained ache in his shoulder is nothing compared to the dull pulsing of his chest. Charlie is blissfully patient, he notices with an appreciative swallow.
"Alright.. I just... I feel guilty. I'm keeping something secret from him, see? But this time it got him hurt." Charlie lays a warm hand on his good shoulder. She's bent over the smallest bit to meet his eyes through the silken waves of her hair. There's a look of understanding in her face, even if it is laced with an unspoken layer of her own sadness.
"You should really tell him how you feel, Harry. How you really feel. I can tell it's eating you alive... Might help to finally get it off your chest."
He wastes no time with a crack his voice, "I can't do that! He's not... He's not interested. It would just freak him out."
"How will you know if you never try?"
Husk has no response for that. His eyes trail off to the floor again with slow lazy movement. He's lightheaded and has to take a deep breath to get his senses to come back to him. But he let's Charlie finish with his shoulder without any fuss. Normally, he's lucky she doesn't ask too many questions when he comes to her for things like this. But once or twice on a few drunken visits like this, he'd let slip his second best kept secret to the woman. She never even judged him for it. True to her word, she was the most loyal companion he could ask for, and would trust her with almost everything. His voice is lower by the time he's ready to say it. And even then, he can feel Charlie's supportive silence over him in a way that soothes his tension.
"I'm scared alright? That's all... I know that's fucking stupid... But I really don't want to screw up and lose him."
"Harry... you know who you're talking about, right? I don't think you could shake Alastor off if you tried your damn hardest. You have to try, okay? Trust me on this one."
"I... Alright, Charlie... I'll try." She smiles wide at him as soon as he says it, and gives him a firm pat on the back for good measure. With that done, Husk stands from the chair and stretches his good side from the stiff position. He's still woozy and weighed down with the flow of conflicting emotions. But they're a bit lighter now that he's had a chance to process them with Charlie, in the proper sunlight.
"Do you need a ride home, Harry? You really need to sleep for at least a few hours on that morphine."
"I'll be alright, Char. I got my truck and it's not even ten minutes away. Thanks though... For everything..." He puts a hand on her blonde head and gives her a gentle pat. All while showing her the most warm and sincere smile he can manage while his vision is spotty from the mere action of being on his feet again. He's sure he can make it back home. He has to at least, since he left "breakfast" there and should really clean that up before anyone can see it... But first... sleep.
.
...
.
Delphi Fontenot as a local witch doctor, though she despised the term and wasn't afraid to give a few choice lashings to anyone who called her such. Her skin was dark as night and her eyes were nearly the same deep transcendent pitch. Long midnight hair was woven into several thick braids and elegantly looped with decorations on her head. A few animal bones, feathers, dyed fabric, and beads of various shapes and sizes were all laced into the locks with excellent care. Her attire was simplistic, yet mystic as she liked to appear. The dress itself was white, and she donned a deep blue cloak covered in star patterns. Her wrists were covered in bracelets and charms, and a large shining cross shape was dangling from her ear. Her appearance would be called into question out on the streets, but in her element, it served to make her customers trust her even more. She had a quiet little shop in town, with purple silk curtains hanging outside to create the dreamy aesthetic she was going for. She mainly sold good luck charms, studied tarot cards, and read fortunes for the tourists and the superstitious types. It's what she's done for several years in this very city where the heart of voodoo was born and nurtured. But this time her mission was of a more serious nature.
The Rougarou was a well-known legend around Louisiana, though some preferred to call it myth or bed time story. She had been to the bayou a few days before the full moon, as Cyrano Arnaud had requested her to do. There was definite evidence of the beast in that wood. By her calculations, it was a man that turned into a monstrous wolf every cycle of the full moon. Once every month, it would be out there. And it just so happened to be killing a few men belonging to the Blind Tiger speakeasy every month when it did appear. It had to be a man who lived nearby the Southern bayou, if it could disappear without a trace between the sun up and sun down...
Delphi began her search where the last of the men had been killed last month. The body has since been removed, but traces of blood remained deep within the soil. It could not be seen with the eye, but with the spiritual energy of the earth as she touched the ground with her fingertips. There's a light spicy aroma coming from the candles she lit for the occasion. And from them, green and purple smoke curls up into the trees and fades out into the sky.
...The beast did not mean to kill, she senses, It was just defending itself...
Delphi taps her cheek in thought of how she should proceed with this... The Rougarou is a mere man with a curse... Is it right to kill a poor fool who has no control over his curse? One who would probably do anything to get rid of it?
Now that the full moon has passed, Delphi returns to the Southern bayou to uncover his identity. All she needs is a small clue pointing her in the right direction. What she finds when she arrives though, is the man himself. She hides herself in the shadow of a tree as she hears footsteps crunching over the twigs. It seems as if the man doesn't want to be heard, so he treads lightly over the turf. It is mysterious to see a human being coming out of the bayou the morning after a full moon. This man looks dazed and tired, slumping along as if he may be delirious. He seems to be a tall skinny brunette with pretty brown eyes that flash red in the early light of dawn. There's a large wound on his neck, some of the blood dried and sticking to his pallid skin. That's the clue Delphi was searching for. She watches him for just a little longer as he makes the dizzy walk through the back routes leading into town.
Delphi escapes from the bayou without being seen by the man. The supposed Rougarou... It doesn't feel right somehow. Her blood doesn't run cold at the mere sight of him, as it is supposed to when in the presence of the supernatural. But regardless, she now has what Cyrano Arnaud has ordered her to get.
She finds him waiting for her when she arrives back at her shop, in fact. He pulls up in a stylish beige Nash Touring with big black wheels. He's wearing a white suit today, and a matching fedora on his head. He gives her a nod when he sees her approaching on foot. His presence here is drawing the eyes of the public, so Delphi escorts him inside as quickly as she can. Once his spats-covered shoes are standing on her star patterned carpet, he wastes no time in getting down to business.
"What did you find?"
Delphi takes her seat at her table before she speaks. She folds her hands on top of the white table cloth and looks down at it through her opaque veil.
"The man you are looking for has a large wound on his neck and red eyes," she informs him. He sits down across from her when he hears this information. He doesn't say it, but she has a feeling Arnaud already has a general idea of where he needs to search to find this man. He's been doing his own research over the past week, just as she has, after all. He is taking it very seriously.
"How do I kill him?" Is his next question. It does not come as surprising to her. Delphi knew he was going to ask eventually. But now that she has a human face to attach to the creature, she finds herself hesitating to give away the critical knowledge.
"A Rougarou..." she begins with a subtle croak, "Can only be killed by decapitation. And once the head is severed, the body must be burned."
"Damn. That's medieval."
"This is the way."
"Thank you, Madam Delphi," Arnaud says, removing his hat as some kind of polite gesture in the lady's presence. He looks like he is about to leave with just this information, so Delphi finds herself continuing unprompted to speak.
"A Rougarou does not like holy relics," she explains, "If you need to be sure that you have the wolf, bare a cross of God at him and watch his eyes."
Cyrano Arnaud smirks. Just as Delphi feared, his mission is nothing more than murder. Be rid of the monster as soon as possible. Their business deal ends here, as he cuts her a modest sized check for her services. She watches his hand sign the signature on the bottom line and heat rises in her throat. Though this is where her part of the job ends, she may end up investigating this further on her own. She can't resist the pull of curiosity and the feeling that something is wrong.
"Good day, Madam Delphi. It was a pleasure doin business with ya."
.
...
.
Husk heads back home later that morning with a lot of his mind. He swears he's hallucinating for a second when he spots a figure slumped over outside his apartment. He stops his dusty green truck on the pavement and slides the key out of it's metal port to throw the door open. His eyes open a little wider as he makes his way across the cracked sidewalk. With his gaze held steady over the stranger there, it becomes all too clear that it's not a stranger at all. Alastor is sitting on the stone walkway with his back against Husk's door. His head is slumped over onto his shoulder and his eyes are shut in a restless sleep. Never mind the fact that he's fallen asleep outside, but the man looks like a complete wreck.
Husk chokes for a second as he spots the drying red splatter littered all over the man's throat. He can see the outline of large teeth underneath it all. The tooth marks are deep set, and sure to stick around as visible markings for a while. He's also wearing a crudely made bandage tied around his arm. Crude as in, it's just a dirty off-white cloth stained a violent red and bleeding through in a way that makes it look wet. The cherry on the sundae is that his friend's breath is shallow and barely present. He must have passed out there while waiting for him. It doesn't bode well. It also makes Husk's stomach drop uncomfortably low as if it could hit the ground in guilt. He has to steel himself to kneel down. He knows he shouldn't, but he takes the rare opportunity to softly brush his hand through the messy fluff of brown hair.
"Al? Al, wake up, little buddy."
He's beyond relieved when Alastor's eyes flutter open a little, revealing the precious dazed sienna beneath. It takes him another second to clear the fog of sleep away enough to recognize Husk in front of him. But as soon as he does, the recognition and relief explodes across his entire expression.
"Oh my God... Harry! Harry, you're alive!"
Before he can question it, the brunette is barreling into him and throwing his arms around his middle. Husk's breath catches and he gently holds onto Alastor's shoulders. He's thankful that he's able to suppress his own wince of pain as his friend jostles the wound in his shoulder. Another time, he might shove him away to save face. But now the man is shaking violently, and using a hoarse tone that would be detrimental to his favorite kind of vocal work.
"Christ, Al, what were you doing here? You look horrible..." Husk can't continue the thought past that. He'd rather have this conversation away from the prying public eye. So he half picks up the smaller man and ushers him into the apartment. Once the door is safely clicked shut behind them, he notices the drying evidence of tears on his friend's face and freezes where he stands. He can't recall a day in his life that he's ever seen Alastor cry... His eyes are always dark with a lack of sleep in general, but now there's a puffy redness about them that makes him look ghostly. Although, Alastor does seem revived to a divine glow every time he looks at Husk's face. The brunette swallows and clears his throat, the way he might before telling a long-winded story. But what actually comes out ends up being exactly what Husk expected.
"You're never going to believe this, Husk. The loup-garou is REAL. I had a torturous run-in with it last night." Alastor gestures to his injuries and the general disarray that he's in. The disheveled look is unusual for him enough to add credibility to that testament. While he's not a vain man, he likes the air of composure that a fine attire can afford. Seeing him bloody, clothes torn and outwardly tucked, hair askew and missing his glasses—it's all a combination of great concern. H usk feels his hand moving before his mind can catch up to it. He touches feather-light against the deep purple bruise on Alastor's neck, morphing into puncture wounds and bloody splatter. It's a little surprising that his friend allows him to do this much, normally jerking away at the slightest touch. But his big brown eyes are still watery and trained on his. It's such a hurt expression, he can barely take it.
"What did... What did it do to you, Alastor?"
"It licked me."
"...The fuck did you just say...?" Husk blushes without control.
"It did! I know how bizarre that sounds. I thought it was going to eat me, but I managed to get away with it just trying to taste me instead."
"Ohhhh. That makes sense..." Husk is reeling. About to fall over and not just from the morphine threatening to knock him out. He puts both hands on Alastor's shoulders to steady himself, though he prays that the man doesn't catch on to his internal discomfort.
"What makes sense about that? In all the research I did, the loup-garou was made out to be a hungry mongrel that would kill and devour without hesitation. It has an unquenchable thirst for blood and death... And yet, it toyed with me instead. It's not feasible—"
"Yeah, well maybe all that research is wrong!" He says a little too defensively. Alastor stares hard at him, eyes a little too wide and less than trusting.
"Suppose you have a point... There is no way to know everything about a creature like this. But now that it's gone—I need to go back out and scout for evidence as soon as possible."
"Back into the bayou? No. You need to take care of yourself first. You look like Hell." Husk locks his door behind himself as a final word on the matter. But he knows nothing would stop the skinny bastard if he really had his mind set on it. Luckily though, Alastor settles into the apartment to accept the subtle offer of help. He doesn't make it far before his shoes crinkle below him, tripping over part of a blue tarp laid out over Husk's kitchen floor. Laying squarely in the middle of this is the lifeless body of a deer with it's thin legs splayed together in almost ritualistic fashion. The antlers that adorned the creature like the crown of a king have both been cut off and laid to rest beside it. The most eye catching of the scene though are the large gnashing bite marks in the buck's neck. He's sure he's looking at the cause of death, with how deep the incisions are. It's the only injury on the animal at all. Just one clean and precise maiming. Absentmindedly Alastor reaches up to the wound on his own neck as he stares at the lifeless creature.
"Husker... what is..."
Husk follows his gaze to the bloody creature on the floor and clears his throat, "I uh... went hunting this morning. Thought about making venison steak for you, to uh.. make up for how I acted yesterday."
"That's very thoughtful of you. Ah hmm... What did you kill it with...?"
"Whatta ya mean...? Just shot it like normal..." Husk coughs a little.
"But there aren't any bullet holes on—"
"C'mere and quit yapping already... You're still covered in blood." Husk puts an arm around Alastor's shoulder to guide him away from the animal and towards the washroom. All the while there's a thick knot in his stomach. He can tell his friend isn't buying it. But he doesn't say anything further either, so Husk chalks it up to the man being more shaken than he'd thought he was.
It takes some time to get the water ready, but Husk let's Alastor tend to himself in the other room. He's particular about certain touchy acts like that. So the bigger man takes his opportunity to finally sit down on the sofa and lay his head back. Husk's whole body feels drained and sluggish. Even with eyes closed, his attuned senses can hear and smell his friend in the other room. It's a strange feeling, being so aware of another person when they're not even in the same vicinity or even in sight. Regardless, he tips his head back with a serene look on his face and lets it sweep over him. It's a discrete flowery basil smell attached to Alastor's person that reminds him of a breezy stroll through the bayou. And beneath that, the injuries themselves have their own distinct allure. His blood has such a rich addictive scent to it... It's a sweet aroma... with the faintest wash of almond for a slightly bitter surprise finish. It's hovering in the air all around his place like a muscle relaxant making him high. It's just one of the many things that keeps drawing him towards the other man like a magnet.
He still doesn't open his eyes when Alastor walks back out to the living room. He's fully aware of it regardless. But now that he can feel eyes on him, he has to peek out to see if the scatterbrain has taken care of himself properly. A strangled feeling constricts deep within him now that he can see the new big white bandages covering his throat and his arm. He gets caught staring, but he can't help himself enough to drag his eyes away.
"Husker, are you alright?"
"Mmm... Just tired. Didn't sleep a wink."
"Were you worried about me~?" He smirks, eyes glinting with barely-contained mischief. And Husk cracks a smile himself at the return of normalcy.
"Fuck no. That loup-garou would be doing me a favor if it ate you, annoying bastard," he says, because he has to. But the bitter words have no bite to them. Alastor never takes the insults to heart even when they are meant to scathe. So that smile stays on his face as he joins Husk on the sofa with a drawn out sigh of his own.
"So you believe my story after all? I thought for sure you'd tell me I hallucinated the whole thing..." he rubs his forehead beneath the brown fringe. Husk has to look away from it. But even without looking, he can remember the terror on his friend's face that couldn't be matched by anything. He's seen the man held up at gun point, drugged and kidnapped, beaten in the streets, attacked by demons of the night—and none of those even compared to the chilled horror he saw on him last night. Blurry and gray though it may be in the back of his mind, it's not something he's likely to forget.
"I believe you, Al..." No sooner than he's said it, he feels a soft thud hit his good shoulder. Husk twists his head to see Alastor laying on him, completely knocked out. It's the first serene look he's seen on his friend's face all day, and it spreads a certain kind of warmth inside and out of his chest. It hurts Husk's silver wound a bit to reach over in this awkward angle, as he considers the risks of trying to move him somewhere more comfortable. He settles with shifting sideways to lie down with his head on one of the stitched pillows that Bernadette gifted to him to make things a little homier. Alastor doesn't even wake up as Husk delicately rearranges him there beside himself. This way, he can gently rest his face over the radio host's head. Maybe it's greedy of him, but he doesn't want to fight the instinct to bury his nose in his friend's hair. The intoxicating smell puts him to sleep in a matter of peaceful seconds.