Hey everyone! I know it's been a really long time since I've updated this, I apologize. It's been terribly busy of late :/

Chapter 8:

A New Player in the Game

Brogan O'Garvie came in to supper in a sombre mood that was altogether out of character for him. On most occasions, the bluff lad presented an air of charitable frankness, oft-mistaken for a childlike innocence on account of his youthful features. It happened that on this evening the ostler was in a black mood, and not one easily dispelled by good food and company. He took his bowl and spoon from old Missus Bettany, who had been cook at Prime Manor since Lord Optimus was a wee babe, and sat himself in the corner of the kitchen, near to the fireplace.

Well wasn't he going to eat with the master and the others; Missus Bettany was rather scandalized; Whatever was he doing here in the kitchen? Oh not he, Brogan made it clear that he wished to eat in peace, and have some space to think in. This stuck out to the dear old cook as being terribly unusual for O'Garvie, and took it upon herself to broach the subject with Lord Prime. As the man was in the habit of creeping into the kitchens at nights and helping himself to a few raspberry tarts she conveniently left in the larder, she was sure to catch him in time for a brief word.

And that is how Brogan O'Garvie found himself sitting in a mahogany chair that didn't quite fit his large-boned frame, crushing his soft hat between his fists, and staring across a wide desk at his employer, who wanted to know just what was bothering him so badly. By and by, Lord Prime managed to work it out that his young ostler had heard of some disturbance or other in the East End, and was greatly concerned for the Shackletons, who lived there.

"I have asked Marta before, you know, whether she shouldn't take the children and move here," Optimus remarked, and offered Brogan one of the raspberry tarts he had pilfered from the pantry. "But she has always turned me down for reasons of her own."

"I imagine she would," Brogan agreed, with some regret. "Meanin' no disrespect sir, you may well be one of the only men of this neighborhood as doesn't treat the Irish like something you scraped off the bottom of your shoe. And meanin' no disrespect to the neighbors, I'm sure, Marta doesn't have the time nor the heart to deal with such ilk."

"Why, she must do what is best for her family, of course. I suppose you are quite right, my lad." said his employer. "It does not stop me from wishing that I might make their lives safer, naturally."

"Oh indeed, sir," Brogan said, a little more boldly, "Jerome does what he can, of course, but he's just one man, now isn't he?"

And speaking of Wheel, Optimus observed, hadn't it been an awfully long time since he'd come by the Manor? Indeed, he'd only stopped in once, and that was with his cousin to rather blithely remark that some of the Kaon lads were massing in the square and, by the way, was anyone up for a rather spectacular brawl? Come to that, neither he nor Hagen had reported back to be patched up after said spectacular brawl - which had thankfully dissipated before the police were summoned, and thus no one had to be arrested this time.

Optimus was beginning to feel the same concern that nagged hopelessly at Brogan, and asked whether the younger man might be so kind as to see whether the Shackletons were well.

Scarf wrapped tight against the inhospitable weather and the equally inhospitable people that were sure to be out in it, Mr. O'Garvie took the cab. He had intended to walk, but Mrs. Darby had caught him at the gate and put up a terrific fuss saying no he was not to walk all the way to the East End and what did he think he was doing going out without a better coat and who gives tuppence ha'penny for what the neighbors think after all?

It took nearly an hour in the cold, though there were fewer cabs about at this hour, the streets were still crowded. It became apparent after some deliberation that it would, in fact, be quicker to walk, as the route to the Shackletons' included many narrow places that were not certain to fit a horse and cab. Something nagged at the back of O'Garvie's mind as he reigned the heavy old gelding in. Some air of ill will drifted around him, more than the usual flimflam the penny dreadfuls had convinced the upper classes of.

"Easy, old fellow," said the young man, for the horse had begun to snort and stamp as though thoroughly discomfitted at something. "You know the way home, don't you? There's a good lad. Just be off and I'll fetch Jerome back." He patted the animal's neck and stepped out of the buggy. The horse rolled its eyes at him as though asking if he was quite certain he didn't want to get back into the nice safe cab and go home, but it plodded away at a somewhat less than sedate pace when the human did not take the offered chance.

Brogan tightened his scarf and pulled the hat down over his eyes as he entered a maze of streets and corners, towards the London Docks. The longer he walked, the more it struck him that something was indeed amiss. In order to reach the marginally better living establishment of the Shackletons in Bethnal Green, he had to pass through the 20 cramped streets of the Old Nichol.

The Old Nichol was commonly regarded as the worst of all slums within London's East End, its seven hundred-thirty houses - each sagging and wilting in its own self-contained world of decay, its lime-based cement never really drying - crowded mournfully together, some housing as many as a family per room. Given the volume of human beings so often packed into the inhospitable conditions of Old Nichol, Brogan would have expected to see more of them on the street.

Aside from the odd street sweeper, hollow-eyed and ill-fed, there were only a handful of men and women staring blankly out of doorways, or sitting on doorsteps with pipes. A very small gang of children - no more than ten or eleven of them - darted past in the half-light, but they were so strangely somber that they hardly seemed to be children at all. Rather, they put him in mind of old fairy stories of changlings, little old fairies and elves taking the place of children in the cradle. It gave him a chill and he pulled his coat tighter.

One of the wee ones turned and looked him right in the eye, an air of terror rising about her pinched face, only to subside into an expression of stark indifference moments later. The child could not have been more than eight, yet bounced a babe on her hip with as much experience as a girl of twenty might. Doubtless she was all the sickly infant had as caretaker and comforter while their mother worked in the factories.

"O," the shriveled little mouth puckered, sending a tiny wisp of vapor into the day, "You e'n't a wolf, is ya?"

Something rather cold and unpleasant seemed to wrap around O'Garvie's spine at the words, and he found he could not be certain whether the waif referred to an animal or a man, as in the cautionary tales told to young women.

"Here now, lass," said he, "What do you mean by saying I ain't a wolf? There ain't wolves in the Ol' Nichol. Dogs, like, an' plenty rats, but no wolves."

The other ten children, like tattered scarecrows, fluttered to stand in a circle around the man. He felt a twinge of discomfort, easily molded into pity, as he took in their starving faces and bony fingers. "There ain't no wolves," he found himself repeating, if for no other reason than to try to add some comfort to this little band's cheerlessness.

"That's not what ol' Sally said - what was befawer da wolf got 'er though," mused a younger boy. "It was she said a wolf was about, an' i' got 'er when she stepped out da door."

"Aye, lossa blood, poor ol' Sally," the first girl agreed. "Not what anyone noticed, stones bein' so filthy an' all."

Brogan shivered despite himself. It didn't sound like the attack that had seen Mo Li running to the stables to talk to him several nights running, but now that the children had brought it up, he did note that the street's usual foul odor was mixed with a coppery tinge. He valiantly fought the urge to gag and scattered a handful of pennies among the children.

"Right, when did this happen then, and has the wolf attacked anyone else like?" he sternly instructed the raggedy bunch to tell him the truth. Astonishment broke through the practiced apathy for a moment that someone from outside of their slum actually cared what went on inside, enough to loosen tongues.

"Ol' Sally e'n't even the first, ya know."

"Fird one, more like."

"Aye, third. Bu' not all in Ol' Nichol."

"I 'eard there was one down in Bethnal Green an' all!"

"Can I 'ave another penny mister?"

"An' me?"

"An' me?"

O'Garvie was grateful he'd forgotten to turn out his pockets before leaving the manor. On reflection, that pint he'd been considering wasn't all that necessary after all. Scuffed and sooty cheeks spread outward into yellowed but guileless smiles as the children bore their spoils away, calling back perfunctory blessings on his head for his generosity.

There was something going on in the slums that needed addressing, of that he was certain. It might do to send one of the younger Shackletons up to Mayfair and inquire as to whether any zoo animals had got loose recently. That certainly might account for the presence of a wolf, if not the behavior of one. Why, the wolves he'd seen at the zoo had always been just as tame as pups, only too eager to take whatever bit of meat pie or bread one might slip between the bars. There was not the slightest indication that those gentled beasts would turn upon even the mildest provocation and savage a human being.

Brogan O'Garvie drew his coat tighter around his neck and felt for the pistol in the back of his belt before continuing on. He made good time through the remainder of the Old Nichol, and hurried on toward Bethnal Green. The man did not bother to pick his way around the piles of refuse, some steaming in the bitter weather, and trod through several puddles of melted snow and other, less pleasant things. He found that he could not bring himself to look down at his boots lest he discover stains of red upon the toes.

The Shackleton family - and, when it suited him, Wheels Jerome - lived in the dilapidated remains of a workhome that mostly belonged to weavers. The Shackletons lived in the upper two rooms, and were fortunate - or perhaps unfortunate - enough to have a window in one of the rooms. One could easily tell the house from the other identical brick and lime monoliths, as one of the middle boys, Willie, liked to paint flowers on the window so that his younger siblings might pretend they had a proper garden.

Hagen Shackleton leaned in the doorway, with shirtsleeves too long and a corncob pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth as he observed the ostler approach from under half-lidded eyes. And what brought Mr. O'Garvie to the humble home of the Shackletons and company, he wanted to know.

"Go 'way with that!" Brogan snatched the pipe from the lad's mouth and tossed it over one broad shoulder. "You don't e'en smoke!"

"Aye but I could, if I wanted to," the impish boy answered. He felt very grown-up indeed, now that he'd passed his fourteenth birthday. "I've a job an' all, I'm man o' the house!" he argued.

"Well you're a man o' the house what doesn't smoke, an' I'll tell Dr. Rach if I so much as catch a whiff of smoke about ye." the elder Irishman said archly. "Is Wheels at home?"

Hagen said he supposed he was, but that he was busy. "You can come up if you like," he added as an afterthought, "But we haven't time for missions today. Much too busy keeping the slum alive today."

"Then has that wolf I heard about in Ol' Nichol got as far as this way?" Brogan asked, and he began to have an understanding of why Wheels and Hagen had been absent from the Manor recently.

All at once the thin lad shushed him harshly, holding a grimy finger to his lips. He sternly warned Brogan not to speak about things he didn't want to bring down on his own head, then took him inside. Up the creaking stairs, likely to give way at any time, they came to a wide room lit by a small woodstove.

Three of Hagen's younger siblings were out and about, being old enough to work. That Lord Prime had arranged positions with small businesses out of the East End eased Brogan's mind somewhat, as it was a considerable relief to know the youngsters were far removed from whatever danger was stalking the slums.

Hagen stopped to lift one of the younger seven up onto his back. That little Florrie and her twin brother Pat had lived to see their second birthday was nothing short of miraculous in the conditions of Bethnal Green. Even still, Florrie was not a very strong child, and the elder Shackletons often took turns carrying her about. For all that, she still had the brightest smile any of them had seen on a babe in the workhome in years. Little dimples appeared as she waved a small hand at Brogan.

"Ah lookit that!" a deeper voice said, coming from the shadows behind the door, "She recognizes her own Uncle Brogan, doesn't she?"

Wheels sat bent over a rough table, his tanned brow furrowed. There was the hint of his good humor still shining through the exterior, but overall he was incredibly somber. Across the table he had scattered rough diagrams and a stack of what appeared to be witness accounts of some kind. There was only one chair, and so O'Garvie dragged a crate that served as Florrie's bed at night to the table and upturned it to use as a seat.

"Lord Prime's been getting worried about the lot of you," he began, "Since I was too, we thought to send me down here and see what the row is."

It was with a grim expression that Jerome slid a sheaf of papers to his friend. "Three dead by apparently unnatural means." he spoke dispassionately, with a wealth of weariness in the tone. "We have our share of crime and disease here, I'll not pretend otherwise. But straight murder is not so prevalent as the upper crust'd like ye to believe. This sort of thing is noticed - though nobody's done a thing about it of yet. I thought, though, that it sounded a bit like-"

"Mo Li's nightmares," Brogan finished. "Aye, as did I. Sommat about a black wolf? But you don't really think this has anything to do with Kaon?"

"It may and it may not." Wheels pushed back the chair, then stopped and cursed under his breath as the leg snapped out of place again. He knelt beside the chair and shoved the leg back in place before beginning to pace, stepping over a child every few moments.

"Regardless, each of these deaths occurred in places not even a normal dog should've been able to get. Fenced in alleys, rooftops, a boxed-in lot behind a workhome. There ain't a way to make it fit with anything I know of a normal animal, yet I saw the evidence: clawmarks, bites, the whole desparate mess. Funny thing though, less blood than there ought to have been. I know what it looks like when a man's been torn apart. There should've been twice as much blood as there was."

"Wheels!" one of the girl-children looked horrified, and reached out to cover baby Pat's ears.

"Tis a fact of life, me beauty," her cousin replied. "This ain't the Garden of Eden we're livin' in."

Hagen came to stand at the table, still bouncing his youngest sister on his back. "Well go on and tell him the rest of it then," he said, a little irritated that his younger siblings were being frightened.

The man affected a careless air, though the deep shadows beneath his eyes spoke otherwise, and waved a hand in the air in a gesture of acquiescence. "First death happened after a man talked about seeing a shadow the night before. Second attack was the witness to the first attack, who said he thought it was a wolf. He died three minutes later. Third attack was-"

"Sally, in the Ol' Nichol. I heard about that one," Brogan interrupted. "The children there said she'd just expressed a lack of belief in there being any wolf when it killed her. So you think it may be unnatural then?"

"I don't know what I think," said the other tritely. "I suppose I think we'd better kill it before it kills someone else. There's children as live on this street you know, and I'll not risk any of 'em."

He looked down for a moment before looking back up again with a half smile. "Any of you fancy a wolf hunt?"

The passage of several hours found Hagen, Wheels, and Brogan in a dark alleyway, listening to drunken shouting from a few surrounding streets and bundled in extra rags against the cold. In order to test the hypothesis that the mysterious assassin was drawn towards talk regarding it, each man intended to speak loudly of there being no wolves in Bethnal Green, while each priming a pistol, to see what might happen.

It was, doubtless, a risky adventure, and one that Lord Prime might disapprove of as it left Marta alone with her other children, but none of them quite felt like abandoning their post in order to go all the way back to Mayfair.

In order to keep from freezing, each one was obliged to hop from foot to foot every now and again, despite the presence of a pitiful fire in a rubbish bin that someone had long ago dragged into the recess.

"This is," said the youngest of their number, "A remarkably foolish idea."

"Well you might have said so before," answered his cousin, a touch peevish in the cold.

"I believe that I did say so before," replied Hagen, "And you said to me - which I quote back to you now - "What's the worst that might happen?" followed by you leading the way into the alley."

In rather bad language, Jerome declared that he didn't have to listen to his younger cousin, and would Hagen kindly stop talking now so that they could wait for the wolf.

"The wolf that doesn't exist," Brogan reminded them, and both his eyebrows were arched over his eyes like caterpillars.

Ever so slowly the time slipped by, and each felt in his heart that peculiar dread which comes from the hours of darkness, when evil things may walk abroad. The streets grew unnaturally quiet, and even the carousers from the pubs seemed to grow muffled. Something had come among the streets of Bethnal Green: it was now only a game of waiting to determine where it would raise its head first.

All at once a shrill cry, more after the fashion of a wounded animal than a human, rose in the dense fog, and beneath the pained tones were the snarls of an animal. At once the trio drew their pistols and made a dash for the source of the sound, which came from two streets beyond them. Desperation lent their feet wings and they rounded the corner not two minutes after the first scream. There, on a stretch of black and polluted pavement in a street so curiously quiet as to seem abandoned, they came upon a grisly sight.

A man lay amidst the stones, his oft-patched coat in tatters and spattered with blood. One arm was thrown up over his face and neck as thought to shield them. The other arm lay a short distance away, wholly separated from its body. Standing over the man was a black figure that was perhaps four hands high at the shoulder. In the fog, unbroken by all but the men's lanterns, the shape of the creature was not visible. Eyes, burning a green-gold color, stared back at them without emotion, containing a great deal more intelligence than a feral animal might've had.

The shape moved a little ways from the man's head, and the harsh click of nails upon cobblestones went unmuffled by the foggy night air. The man screamed again, a hideous, pitiful wail, as he began to disappear into the darkness. The creature had got him by the leg and was dragging him away, leaving a trail of blood.

Snapped out of the trance-like state induced by the uncanny creature's eyes, each of the Bull's Horn lads raised his pistol and fired at the dark shape. The flash of the muzzle did not illuminate the street enough to reveal the shape of the mysterious attacker, but each man had his suspicions as to what it was. After the third shot, there came a solid sound of impact, and a heavy snarl. One of the bullets had struck the creature, though they could not be sure where.

It gave a great bound, and at once disappeared from their sight. The sound of nails scraping across shingles echoed for a few moments, then vanished. Brogan and Wheels ran to the body of the victim, sternly ordering Hagen to go back to where the detached arm was, to see if there might be a way to salvage it.

A great deal of blood had been lost, and the man lay terribly still in it. Gently, Wheels pulled his remaining arm down from over his face and throat so that he might search for a heartbeat. A look of deathly terror was forever etched into the whiskery features of the poor man, glassy eyes wide with a supernatural fear until Jerome reached up and gently shut them. In an expression of bitter resignation, he looked up and O'Garvie and shook his head slowly.

"This old fella was likely ossified as all kingdom come, but he felt it." the man grimaced. "Desperate business, this. I can't say as I'm not shook. Brogan, mate, you'd best go and find a guard to clean up 'round here."

"Aye, I'll leave the lantern with you lads." O'Garvie nodded. "Once this is cleared away, we ain't leaving your little cousins 'til daybreak."

"Be wide, that beast mightn't have fled as far as we think."

"And you do the same."

Brogan reloaded his pistol and held it at the ready as he made his way towards the nearest member of the Metropolitan Police: J Division. After a brief, uncomfortable misunderstanding owing to the fact that he was armed and the policeman was not, O'Garvie managed to convince the officer of the need for immediate action. The whistle was blown, and several more policemen were called to assist.

Back with the body of the tattered man, Wheels crouched with lantern and pistol at the ready. This kept rats and other animals from coming near the bloodied corpse, but also kept any opportunists from looting the poor fellow. Hagen stood a meter or so away, examining the arm that had been torn away. The damp of the evening had not erased the tracks from where the attacker had walked through the blood.

"Wheels, we were right."

At the solemn tone in his cousin's voice, Jerome looked back over his shoulder. The lad pointed down at several dark blots upon the pavement.

"These are the footprints of an enormous hound!"