Beloved

A Story by Kira S

When a serial killer terrorizes the city, there's only one person capable of stopping them: Cole Brooks, a boy with the ability to see much more than he should.

See No Evil

The dominoes start falling with the murders.

The first death was written off as a freak animal attack. The second, a coincidence. The third, a pattern. Every month, it was the same--a victim, found dead in the park. Throat, violently torn open. Surprise, frozen permanently on their faces. With the public in an outcry and falling to panic, Chief Brooks decides it's time to stop looking at it as accidental deaths and instead as a serial killing case, but along the way to the third crime scene, he has a skipping-school tagalong.

Cole Brooks has never skipped a day of school in his life. Top of the honor roll, junior class president, already studies criminal justice on the side in preparation for college. Cole Brooks has never broken a single rule in his life, but this case is the biggest case that’s come to the city in a long time. Cole is planning on being a police officer, and though it’s strictly forbidden for him to accompany his father to a crime scene, just this once he can’t help himself. He needs to see what’s going on, how the investigation is going to change now that it’s classified as a murder instead of an animal accident. So Cole tails his father’s patrol car, using a combination of his own knowledge of the city’s shortcuts and a stolen police radio to reach the crime scene around the same time his father does. There are a few patrol cars around already, so Cole creeps as close as he dares and presses himself along the side of one of the cars, peering around the wheel to see what’s going on.

He’s met with a gruesome sight. The victim, a man, is twisted limply on the ground, clothes ripped at the seams, throat ruptured and ragged. Most of the blood soaked into the dirt is around his face and shoulders, and his expression, fixed in place, is a mixture of horror and surprise. The corpse hasn't even been hidden, strewn out on the path, though there are plenty of trees and bushes nearby. Forensic specialists pepper the scene, snapping photos and placing markers where they think they see evidence.

Seeing a dead man in real life is different than seeing it on TV, and the first thing Cole notices is the smell, crawling up his nostrils and making him suppress a gag. Crime shows have nothing on the real thing; it reminds Cole of a maggot-infested deer corpse he remembers seeing on a hunting trip with his father. He fights back bile rising in the back of his throat; if he’s going to be a police detective, he’s going to have to get used to this smell. There’s no getting around it.

One detective stands over the body, posture slack, stubble peppering his chin and a cigarette dangling between his lips. He’s still tan from a vacation in Greece a few months back. Detective Randy Stiles, Cole knows; his father’s partner and longtime friend. A nice enough guy who’s provided support for Cole’s family since their mother died in a car crash years ago. He reminds Cole a bit of a drunk uncle; well-meaning, if a bit silly sometimes.

Stiles glances up when Chief Brooks arrives, blowing out a puff of smoke. “I’m tellin’ you, Walt,” he mumbles around his cigarette, “this is the work ‘a some kinda genius.”

"There's no such thing as a genius criminal," Chief Brooks replies, "only a slimy one." He glances over the scene, lip curling in a bit of a grimace. “Poor guy," the chief decides. "What'd forensics find?"

"The weirdest stuff." Stiles frowns. "They can't tell if it's human or animal saliva on the wound--DNA is human, but the consistency isn't. Covered in animal hair, which is leadin' us to think this guy's got a trained attack dog or something." He takes a heavy drag of his cigarette. "Seems like an overly complicated way to kill someone, if you ask me."

"Serial killers are all about overly complicated," Chief Brooks responds. "Any witnesses?"

"Nup."

"Security camera footage?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Do we even know the damn victim's name?"

"Aaron Bates, some lowlife probably takin' a midnight stroll to hit up his dealer." Stiles takes another drag. "And no, the uniforms already checked. No obvious connection 'tween the other two victims so far."

"Hm," Chief Brooks responds. “Guess we’re fallin’ back to the basics, then.” He calls a few uniforms over--Cole has to shuffle under the car to avoid being seen--and runs through a checklist. “Find some of the victim’s friends, piece together his movements of the 24 hours before the murder and compare it to the other two. We might get lucky and get a hit that way.”

The uniforms murmur their acknowledgement and head off, and Chief Brooks turns back to the crime scene, but Cole isn’t listening to them anymore. His mind is in other places. There are too many puzzle pieces that aren't quite fitting, such as the inconsistency between saliva and DNA. How the body isn't thrown into the bushes, even though they're nearby and would have hidden the corpse well. The sheer brutality of the act, the inhuman nature of it, the suggestion of an attack dog when there's only one set of footprints. Whatever was doing the killings, Cole reasons, was some sort of animal with human qualities. The sort of thing that didn't exist in the regular world's narrative.

But Cole knows that the regular world isn't so regular at all.

“I’d better head back to the precinct,” he suddenly hears Chief Brooks say. “Gotta break the news to the family and all that. Toughest part of the job.”

“I’ll grab ya a coffee, Walt. See ya at the office.”

“Thanks.”

Cole hears the sound of boots crunching on gravel, getting closer, and he scrabbles to get out from under the car without being seen as his heartbeat picks up. Unfortunately, it’s to no avail, and Cole chokes as someone grabs the back of his collar and yanks him backwards.

“Well, well, well, Mr. Honor Student, whatcha doin’ skulkin’ around a crime scene?” Stiles chuckles. “Your pops know you’re here, Cole?”

A bitter smell wafts past, and Cole wrinkles his nose. Ugh, alcohol. What an irresponsible cop, drinking on the job. “That hurts, Randy, let me go, ow--”

Stiles transfers his hand from Cole’s collar to his shoulder, and suddenly Cole can breathe again. “You know you shouldn’t be hangin’ around crime scenes, Cole, you’re still a minor,” he scolds, but only lightly. “Go home before I’m forced to arrest you for bein’ here or something.”

“But Randy,” Cole protests.

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope, don’t you ‘but Randy’ me. Go home, Colio.” He gives Cole a nudge, and Cole huffs a little, but gets out of the crime scene and back onto the road.

Cole doesn’t go home.

He goes that way about as far as he has to, and then he takes a sharp left. Down the street, towards an innocuous tavern, a place that seemed ordinary, a place that most people's eyes pass over, a place where Cole has seen people with strange eyes and pointed ears walk in and out of time and time again.

A place where the regular world's rules no longer apply.

Cole takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and goes in.

There’s hardly anyone inside the tavern, so Cole immediately draws the attention of the few people scattered around the dark room. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a bit flustered, and nervously glances around, drinking in the sights. The inside of the tavern smells like a smoky forest, and it's pretty clean, cleaner than Cole was expecting. A few tables, a bar, a jukebox, a bulletin board, and a dartboard make up most of the scenery. There aren't that many people inside either. The lady at the bar, with squared-off ears and thick hairy arms, looks at Cole, and her caterpillar eyebrows knit together, but she doesn't say anything. A man with a furry beard and pointed ears lets his beady eyes flick over Cole, but doesn't pay him much mind, sipping at his tankard. The man probably doesn't think that Cole can see his ears. The man thinks wrong.

With so few people inhabiting the bar, Cole sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s a fish out of water and he knows it, too, having never stepped foot inside a bar in his life. Still, he isn’t going to get what he needs by ducking out early, so Cole takes a deep breath and waits for his fluttering pulse to calm. Then he strides over to the bar, sliding onto a leather-cracked stool that squeaks and complains as he presses his weight onto it. The bartender glances him up and down, one bushy eyebrow arcing upwards.

"Aren't you a little young to be in a place like this?" Her voice is rough, reminding Cole of gravel crunching underfoot. "I'm gonna need to see some ID, kid."

He meets her gaze and forces himself not to flinch away when he sees the hard suspicion clouding them. After a few moments under his bright blue gaze, however, the bartender's expression flickers a little. She's uncertain. She's vulnerable. And Cole thinks he recognizes her build, the broad shoulders, the square ears. He’s overheard enough chatter to put some pieces together himself. All Cole has to do is ask the right question, bluff the right way and--

"Aren't you a little tall for a dwarf?"

--shatter her expectations.

The woman's eyes widen and she takes a small step back. Cole hears a clunk behind him as the old man sets his tankard down. The air temperature seems to drop a few degrees, and the silence is so thick Cole can almost see it.

"I--I don't know what you're talkin' about," the woman finally stammers.

"I think you do," Cole replies, gaining a little confidence now that he sees he’s rattled her. "There isn't a point in playing games here, is there? I can see your ears. The ears on the guy behind me too." He rests an elbow on a well-worn spot on the bar counter, presses his chin into his palm. "You don't have to panic so much. I've always been able to see the world for what it's really like."

"But you're--you're a mundane!" the woman protests. "You aren't supposed to have Sight, you shouldn't be able to spot a magick when you see one!"

"A mundane, huh," Cole muses. "Is that what you call us? Us humans that can't use magic?"

"You aren't supposed to See it either," the woman mutters. "Guess you're one of those one in a million statistics I hear about, huh? First time I've ever seen a mundane that ain't Blind." Recovering from her initial shock, the woman picks up a dirty glass and starts to wipe out the inside with a rag. "Aren't you the son of the police chief?"

"The same," Cole confirms. "I'm looking for information. Not a drink."

"What kinda information, kid?"

Cole thinks of what the detectives on television would do at this moment and gazes coolly at the woman.

"What do you know about werewolves in this city?"

The woman sighs deeply.

“You’ve gotta be f****n’ kiddin’ me,” she grumbles.

Hear No Evil

"I said no, Cole, that's final."

Cole rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I can help," he protests.

Chief Brooks chuckles. "I know you're studyin' law and all to be like your old man, Cole, but leave this case to the professionals."

"The professionals are stumped," Cole insists. "You need all the outside help you can get."

"And what kinda outside help can you get me?" Chief Brooks looks amused. "Some library research? Ya teachers' opinions? I know you mean well, Cole, but you don't have the same kinda connections as those of us out in the field. Sides, it's dangerous." He lays a hand on his son's shoulder. "I appreciate the enthusiasm, son, but my answer isn't changing."

“Are you done talking about boring stuff?” Claire pouts, kicking her legs under the table. “Dad, we were practicing lacrosse today and Cassidy made this amazing save…”

Chief Brooks turns his attention to Cole’s younger sister, and Cole stiffly excuses himself from the dinner table and retreats to his room. He knows from watching endless hours of cop dramas that being frozen out of the investigation is a detective's worst nightmare, especially when he is the only one who could find the information needed to catch this b*****d.

The bartender introduced herself as Monika, and she was indeed a dwarf. "You sure you know what you're getting into, Brooks?" she asked, doubt clear on her face.

"Just tell me about the werewolves in the city," Cole replied, pulling out his phone and opening a memo app.

"Jeez," Monika muttered under her breath, wiping out a glass with a stained cloth. "Look, lemme lay it out nice and clear for you: lycanthropy is still illegal around here. The Council arrests and quarantines people for bein' afflicted. There's a chemist around here that knows how to throw together a wolfsbane potion, but they rat out magicks to the Council to make a quick buck unless you can top their offer, and trust me, the Council's got deep pockets. You want my opinion, chief kid?"

Cole nodded.

"If there's a werewolf goin' around murderin' folks, either someone's been bitten and they're tryin' to hide it or it's someone from outta town." Monika paused. "I hear a lotta stuff comin' in and out of the bar, so if you need anything you can come to me. But be careful out there, alright?" She pointed her dirtied rag at Cole. "You gotta realize your situation, Brooks. You're a mundane with Sight. And the Council doesn't like those. Watch your back."

Cole raised an eyebrow and shifted open his jacket, letting Monika get a clear view of a Walther P99 holstered in his jacket. “I can protect myself.”

She squinted at it, brow furrowing. “The hell? Is that a literal gun? You look like a minor, Brooks, don’t you know not to play with your daddy’s toys?”

“This is mine,” he replied. “My dad pulled a few strings for a permit.”

“The hell? Why?”

“Fended off some would-be burglars with a Nerf gun.”

Monika stared at him disbelievingly, and then rolled her eyes and muttered, “White people.”

Cole doesn't think the warning is worth all that much; what's this supposedly all-powerful Council going to do, attack the son of the chief of police? Surely these magicks aren't that bold, are they?

All the same, he goes to sleep with his gun under his pillow.

Despite Chief Brooks' warnings, Cole has no plans to leave the investigation alone. Not when he knows the truth about the matter--the killer is a magick, a werewolf, no less, and the regular mundane police aren't going to be able to catch them. Cole is going to have to deal with this alone.

His first step is a crime: breaking and entering.

It's not really breaking and entering, though, since Cole is allowed to hang around the precinct after school to do homework. He's not supposed to sneak onto his dad's computer, though, which is exactly what he does when Chief Brooks is called away for a meeting. The case file for the current killings is easy to find, and Cole checks in to see who reported the first murder. The transcript notes specifically call it an animal attack, and fortunately it looks like the guy had given his full name to the police. Cole scribbles it down and checks the nearest phonebook.

There he is. Miguel Canto, on 4th Avenue. That was on Cole’s way home. He leaves a note saying he headed home early and heads onto the busy streets, taking a bit of a detour. The apartment building isn't hard to find, and a little sweet talking the receptionist gets him the right door to knock on.

For once, he feels as if he’s a real detective. Cole’s a bit excited, but he can’t let it show on his face. He needs to be cool and collected, like his father would be on investigations. He can’t let anything faze him. He must expect the unexpected.

Eyes the color of daffodils are certainly unexpected.

Cole takes a little longer to drink in the sight of Miguel Canto, because the man looks fairly, well… different. Bright yellow eyes and long pointed ears make Cole want to call him an elf, but that’s only his first instinct and he doesn’t know enough about the magick world to know if that’s right or not.

“Yes?” Canto prompts, and Cole feels the color rising in his cheeks as he realizes he’s been openly staring at Canto. He panics a bit before he remembers what he came there for. No need to panic. Deep breaths. Just be clear with your question and you’ll be fine.

"You reported the werewolf," Cole says. It's not a question.

Canto stares at Cole for a good long moment before attempting to slam the door in his face, but Cole jams his foot into the frame. "I don't know anything," Canto whispers desperately, trying to crush Cole's foot. "I don't. I don’t want any trouble, please go away--"

"You’ll get in trouble?" Cole blinks. "With the Council? For reporting a case of illegal lycanthropy?"

Canto pauses. "...Who are you?"

"Just a wannabe detective," Cole replies. "Tell me what you saw and I won't implicate that you were involved."

Canto studies his face, suspicion glittering in those bright yellow eyes. And then, to Cole's surprise, he answers. "I saw the woman who got attacked," he says, nodding once. "She was walking down the street, a bit past midnight. I saw the moon and I saw the werewolf. Tore her throat out, it did, so I called the police and reported it as an animal attack. I didn't exactly lie." Canto shrugs. "Wolves are animals after all. I left the window for only a few seconds, but when I came back, the street was empty except for the body."

"Thanks," Cole tells Canto, and lets him close the door, since he’s gotten what he wanted. Not a lot of information, but at least it confirms what he believes. The killer is an illegal werewolf, but more importantly, it’s a werewolf that knows how to disappear. Cole isn't sure anymore if the werewolf is an out-of-towner, but he does know this: he needs to gather all the bits and pieces he can.

The next few days net Cole precious little information. Monika's bar turns out to be an invaluable resource, directing him to the next tiny pieces of the puzzle, connecting the nearly invisible dots using both the resources at the precinct and the information gathered from magick witnesses. The first murder didn’t have any other witnesses but Canto, so Cole visits the first crime scene and finds a tuft of fur stuck in a chain-link fence, which he adds to his slowly growing evidence stash. The second murder had more than one witness, but Cole only finds one set of information on the police database after sneaking onto his father’s computer, meaning only one was brave enough to report it. The woman is easy enough to find and lets Cole in after he tells her he knows Monika. Her witness account is almost identical to Canto’s: she saw an attack and called the police, and when she turned back only the body remained. But she has an extra nugget of info that Cole writes down eagerly: she adds that she saw a marking on the werewolf's left shoulder; something that looked, ironically enough, like a paw print slashed through with claw marks. She says other things, too, but Cole is distracted trying to figure out what she is to listen.

"Oh, stop staring," she finally snaps. "I'm a half-elf, the question was written plain as day on your face!"

The deeper Cole immerses himself into the world he's ignored for so long, the more to it he discovers. It's only possible for a magick to have blue eyes if some of their blood is human. Elves have impossibly high empathy that lets them communicate with animals, while dwarves can have long conversations with rocks. Not all humans are mundanes; some are magicks, and many of them lead double lives in both the mundane world and magick world. Half-breeds are ostracized in any community, often having to choose between identifying with one race or the other yet shunned by both. One magick Cole talks to is a vet, healing a crow with a sprained wing with glimmering hands. Another chats with him while carving an intricate rune into a wooden disc like it's child’s play. This world, Cole finds, is varied and full of a diverse community.

Cole decides it isn't so bad.

Most magicks react similarly to Monika when he explains that he’s a mundane--with disbelief. Apparently mundanes with Sight are as rare as they come, for more reasons than one. When the mysterious, all-powerful Council catches wind of a mundane with Sight, they tend to disappear, permanently, because they don’t like the idea of outsiders butting in on their world. The very real possibility that Cole might get killed for poking his nose too deep in this case doesn’t bother Cole as much as it probably should, likely because the possibility feels very unreal. Besides, a little danger never got in any hero’s quest for justice.

…He is a little relieved he didn’t have an excuse to get closer to the magick world earlier, though. If he’d gone in without any warning, he could have been snatched up by the Council earlier. That could have been an absolute disaster.

Chief Brooks doesn't talk much about the case, which happens when he gets one that stumps him to the core. He's mostly silent during dinner and then holes himself up in his study, working for hours, sometimes falling asleep in there. Cole is left to clean up and help Claire with her homework, talking her through long division and making sure she brushes her teeth and doesn’t watch too much TV.

“What about your homework, bro?” she asks him one night as they clean up the basement upon completion of a book report. Cole isn’t sure what possessed his eleven-year-old sister to read Beowulf, but he isn’t going to question it.

“I already finished it,” he replies, ruffling Claire’s hair. “Did everything in study hall so I had extra time at home.”

“You’re really smart.” Claire giggles, eyes crinkling up. “Can I be as smart as you one day?”

“I think you already are,” Cole replies, kissing Claire’s forehead. “Go on ahead and get ready for bed, kiddo.”

“Kay, Cole! Love you!” Claire gives him a hug around his waist and trots up the stairs.

It’s a bit of a lie; Cole hasn’t been doing homework in study hall lately. Instead, he’s been trying to piece together a map of the werewolf’s movements, watching the lunar cycle, researching on the internet in his spare time to see if he can dig out proper defenses against werewolves among the classic pop culture. Since he can’t exactly work on those types of things at the precinct, he does homework there.

The other detective teams, at this point, have been dragged into the case as well. Cole sees groups of three or four detectives arguing over a whiteboard, scurrying in and out of the forensics labs, even falling asleep at their desks, exhausted from the overtime.

Inefficient, Cole thinks, watching one man drool all over his paperwork. When I become a police detective, I won’t be an embarrassment to the force like that.

“Whatcha workin’ on, Colio?”

A voice makes Cole look up, and he isn’t too surprised to see Randy Stiles drop down in the chair next to him, spinning around a bit before facing Cole once again. His lax demeanor isn’t very becoming of a police detective, but Cole’s known him long enough to know he’s a skilled detective in his own right.

“Calculus,” he replies, showing Stiles his meticulous notes and calculations in neat handwriting.

Stiles leans forward and squints at the notebook, raising an eyebrow. “Eesh, Cole, you’re one hell of a smart cookie, you know that?” He pauses to light a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking sign directly above his head. Nobody stops him. The precinct is used to this. “Dunno what they’re still doing teaching that s**t in school. What use is the Pythagorean Theorem gonna be in the real world, huh?”

“Dunno, but my teachers sure try to make it seem important.” Cole grins a little. “Just a couple more years and I’ll be in college and never have to take another math class again with the credits I’ve got.”

“Smart cookie,” Stiles repeats affectionately, ruffling Cole’s hair a bit. “You keepin’ an eye on your sis for your old man? Poor guy’s really workin’ himself to the bone, so I wouldn’t be too surprised if he was leavin’ her to you.”

“Yeah,” Cole says, frowning. “I’m getting a little worried. Is the case looking that bad?”

“Well…” Stiles takes a moment to blow a puff of smoke out, waving it away as he does. Across the room, an intern opens a window. “Can’t really talk about the case itself--confidentiality and all that bullshit--but the thing’s got the whole of us stumped, and nobody’s more passionate about it than your dad. Mayor keeps tryin' to tell him that it's just a freak animal killing case, but your pops has a good head on his shoulders. He smells a murderer, and damn if he ain't gonna catch 'em, even if he’s gotta drag the whole precinct in on it."

"Do you think it's a murderer?" Cole asks.

Stiles snorts. "If Walter Brooks thinks we've got a killer, then I believe him," he replies. "Guy's never steered me wrong in all my years working with him." He takes a swing of... something from a canteen Cole is sure is against the rules, but that's just the sort of man Randy Stiles is. "I hate to see him this depressed about a case, though. You didn't hear it from me, but we haven't had a decent lead in a while."

"Maybe you're just not looking in the right places," Cole says, thinking about Monika's bar.

Stiles chuckles. "We've combed the whole damn city at this point. What other right place could there be?" He claps Cole on the shoulder and gets up. "I got a patrol to handle, Cole. See ya."

An hour later, Cole is flipping through his notes in Monika’s bar, the exact place Stiles and his dad should have been searching for information but would never be able to. His notebook has been filled with his neat scrawl, but he isn't sure where any of it is going to get him.

The facts that Cole has gathered piece together well: the perpetrator is definitely a werewolf. They're a local, because they're able to disappear easily into the streets, suggesting an intimate knowledge of the layout of the city. The victims have nothing in common aside from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Magicks that witness the murder are reluctant to come forward, because lycanthropy is illegal in the area and this mysterious force called the Council would come bearing down on their heads.

None of the facts bring Cole any closer to solving the murder, if he's being honest with himself. He doesn't know enough about the local magicks in the area. He doesn't know enough about the magick world itself. Monika is only so willing to help him, and most magicks don't seem to trust a mundane with Sight. And, if his weather app is correct, tonight is the next full moon. Someone else is going to die soon, and Cole doesn't know how to stop it.

"Ya look stumped, Brooks." Monika sets a tankard of ginger ale down in front of him. "On the house."

Cole accepts it with wordless thanks, sipping at the bubbly drink. The words on the page seem to blend together until they don't even make sense anymore. What is he supposed to do with this useless mound of information? The most useful thing he's picked up is the slashed-through pawprint on the wolf's shoulder, but scouring the city for a single tattoo he's never actually seen before isn't a good use of time.

As Cole stares at his notes, he sees a common thread between all of his witness profiles and frowns.

“Monika?” he asks. “Why is everyone so intimidated by the Council?”

Monika raises an eyebrow, leaning on the bar counter. “You kiddin’ me, Cole?” she replies, scoffing. “They make the rules around here, usually ones that benefit them and screw over nonhumans like me’n Johan over there.” She jerks her head at the bearded man that was there the first day Cole entered the bar, who merely grunts in acknowledgement. “They’re the most corrupt government force anyone around here’s ever seen, so nobody wants to get involved with ‘em. Just spells trouble.” She squints at Cole curiously. “That’s pretty off topic of the werewolf case. You stumped?”

“A little,” Cole confesses.

Monika shrugs. “If you ask me, we, and by we I mean you, would be better off reportin’ this case to the Secret Organization with your evidence that it’s linked to lycanthrophy and let them deal with it.” After a moment she reaches out and pats Cole’s shoulder. “You’ve done more than anyone probably expected of a mundane, but let us magicks deal with our own problems.”

Cole takes a sip of the drink, letting the creamy liquid slide down his throat and fill his body with a bit more energy. “Who’s the Secret Organization? Are they connected to the Council?”

“Far from it,” Monika replies. “Think of ‘em like the Men in Black or whatever. They’re this worldwide organization that regulates magick crime ‘n s**t, dispensing justice and all that idealistic jazz. They’re a hell of a lot more humane than the Council, I’ll give you that.” Monika scowls, staring down at the bar. “All the Council ever does is lock up people that publicly disagree with their bullshit policies. They didn’t used to be so corrupt, but what d’you expect from any kinda government?”

Cole frowns and opens his mouth to protest this, that not every government is riddled with the same sort of problems, but a knock on the pub door startles them both, and Monika's face drains of color. "Out the back," she hisses to Cole. "Hurry."

"What-?" But Cole doesn't get an answer as Monika shoves him roughly towards the back door, the one that leads out to an alley Cole has never been in.

"Rats musta got wind of you," Monika mutters. "Use that head of yours, idiot. Council, it's gotta be the Council, they're the only b******s that knock on a bar door!"

Cole blinks, but he can't get another word in before Monika gives him another good hard push and he stumbles into the back alley. She closes the door, locks it, and then all that Cole can hear is the indistinct murmur of voices through wood and stone.

Cole isn’t too surprised if he’s being honest with himself. Word that a mundane was interviewing various magicks and investigating a werewolf case was going to make its way to the Council sooner or later. Cole is just lucky that Monika had his back, at least this once. Or, more likely, she didn't want to cause a huge scene at her bar and chose the path of least resistance. Either way, Cole is grateful.

With nothing else to do, he starts home. It's only a few hours until the moon rises, and Cole already knows that if he doesn't formulate a plan soon, he's doomed.

Oh, and he has an essay for history due. Talk about priorities.

There's really no helping it, so Cole goes home, expecting the house to be empty. Claire is at ballet practice, and his father is probably still working. Cole isn’t expecting the living room to be occupied, but it is.

“Dad?” Cole blinks.

Cole’s father looks up from wiping his gun clean, belt laid out on the couch next to him. “You’re home early,” he says, amused. “Not much homework?”

“Yeah,” Cole lies, thinking back to his narrow brush with the Council. “I didn’t want to be a bother around the precinct, so I came home. What are you doing here?”

“Ah, Randy basically ordered me to come home and take a nap,” his father chuckles, standing up and looping his belt around his hips. “I told him that I didn’t really need sleep when the rest of the force was working so hard, but he insisted I needed a little break.” He shrugs. “Couple hours in bed did me a world of good, I think. I’m gonna head back to the precinct and take a look at the evidence we have.” He frowns, slipping his gun into the holster. “Maybe there was something we missed.”

“Good luck, Dad,” Cole says, and he means it earnestly.

Chief Brooks smiles and the skin around his eyes crinkles up. He ruffles Cole’s hair affectionately, pulling his son into a brief hug. “Thanks, squirt,” he murmurs. “Means a lot more than you think. I’ll see you tonight after patrol, alright?”

“Alright. See you then.”

Chief Brooks leaves, and the house is as empty as Cole thought it was going to be. He isn’t sure what else he can do at the moment, so he gathers his study materials and crosses through the living room, towards his favorite chair, past the mantle.

He stops.

And then he goes back to the mantle.

There it is, plain as day. How could he be such an idiot and miss something this big? The one clue he needed to piece everything together, hiding under his nose? There's a photo of his father, resting on the mantle, with a few of his buddies, doing some silly group pose in front of a mountain trail.

And there, on one man's shoulder, partially hidden by the angle but undoubtedly what Cole believes it to be, is a tattoo of a slashed-through pawprint.

Speak No Evil

With only a few hours left until moonrise, Cole needs to act, and act fast.

The pieces of the puzzle click together in his mind, forming an image he doesn't want to see. An image he doesn't want to believe is true. But it's the only suspect he has, and if he doesn't do something another innocent person is going to die.

Fortunately, Cole knows where he can get the information to give him an edge. He returns his study materials to his room, grabs his jacket, and nearly trips over his own feet getting out the door, catching a bus to the police station.

He runs through the facts that he’s gathered in his head. Out of town three months ago, slashed-through pawprint tattoo on the shoulder, a magick that nobody knew was a magick. It all fit.

Why him? Cole wonders, fingers curling around the pole so tightly his knuckles whiten. Why does it have to be him?

The bus stops, and Cole hops off in front of the station, dashing inside, mind working faster than his feet. The only way he's going to be able to catch the werewolf, he knows, is if he waits until the perfect moment, which is going to be the moment the werewolf attacks his next victim. In order to know where the attack will be, Cole needs to know where the werewolf will be at the moment of transformation. And to know that…

He checks his dad's computer, and his luck holds; the chair is empty, so his father must be in a meeting somewhere. All the better for Cole. He slides into the leather chair, logs onto the network, and navigates quickly to the patrol routes. Searches up the one he wants, compares the times to moonrise... Cole is positive he hasn't made a mistake. He drops a few pins on his phone to serve as checkpoints, erases his history, and leaves before anyone even realizes he was there.

He still has some time to prepare, so it's back to the bar he goes. He needs just one more thing from Monika.

The dwarf woman looks up as Cole enters, and exasperation wrinkles her nose. "Are you an idiot, Brooks?" she snaps as Cole slides into his usual spot at the bar. "What if the Council comes sniffin' around here again? I don't need those b******s on my a*s."

"I need silver bullets."

Monika blinks. "What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. There’s no time.”

Monika squints at him. “I take it t’mean y’found the guy, then?”

Cole nods. "I need .40 caliber silver bullets. Before sunset. Know anyone?"

Monika glances around; this time of day, the bar is mostly empty, but Cole notes that Johan is gone. "Alright," Monika says lowly, taking a coaster from under the counter and scribbling an address on it. She slides the coaster to Cole, who pockets it. "You go there, tell the guy I sent you, and he'll give you a discount. Good luck with your werewolf huntin', Brooks. You're gonna need it."

"Thanks," Cole says, and leaves.

Two hours later, Cole ducks out of a seedy shop, magazine freshly loaded with silver bullets. They weren’t cheap, not even with the discount Monika had scored him, but they were worth it. And just in time, too--the sun is setting, and Cole is running out of time. Heart pounding in his chest, Cole starts running.

The sky darkens, and Cole finally finds what he's looking for: a police car out on patrol. It's driving along at an easy pace, but fortunately it looks like it's on a deserted street. Cole might have time to put this whole case to rest before anyone else gets hurt. He glances up at the sky, fingers drumming a tattoo against the holster at his hip. He knows he's waiting for a sign, but what sort of sign is it, exactly...?

The moon emerges from behind a thick cloud, and suddenly the car jerks off the road and comes to an all-too-soon stop in a clearing. Cole's heart rises up his throat, and he quickly follows after the patrol car, one hand resting on his holster. He finds a spot where he isn't easily seen, draws a pair of binoculars out of his jacket, and focuses in on the driver's seat.

Cole sees exactly what he was expecting, but the transformation is more horrifying than he thought it would be. As he watches, fur sprouts up in tufts along the man's arms and body, his nails sharpening into thick claws. His skull melts and shifts and regrows, allowing a snout to elongate and his nose to blacken. His teeth curve and point, his pained shouts becoming guttural growls. The uniform is torn off, and a fully formed werewolf slinks out the open window.

Cole's hands shake. If there was ever a more perfect moment, it was now. He has to aim now. Flick the safety off now. Pull the trigger now.

Cole cannot force himself to raise his gun.

It's him. How can he pull the trigger on him?

A growl shakes Cole out of his frozen indecision, and with a jolt Cole realizes he's downwind of the werewolf. Which means he can smell Cole. Which means he knows Cole is there. The werewolf is staring directly at Cole, beady animalistic eyes trained on him. Fear seizes Cole's chest, and he finally grabs his gun and aims and flicks off the safety and pulls the trigger--

--and misses.

S**t, Cole thinks as the werewolf leaps at him.

Two hundred pounds of fur and muscle and very sharp teeth knock Cole down and slap the breath from his lungs. The werewolf snarls, breath hot and damp and carrying the vaguely bitter stench of alcohol. He was drinking on the job? God, what an irresponsible cop.

Cole struggles, trying to shove the werewolf off of him, reach for his gun, do anything before the beast tears his throat out, or, worse, bites him and passes on the disease. The werewolf takes an angry swipe at Cole, and he shouts as pain explodes over the right side of his face. Somehow his fingers close around the grip of his gun, lying on the ground next to him.

The werewolf opens its jaws. Cole jabs the muzzle into its ribcage and pulls the trigger.

The BANG echoes through the clearing as the werewolf goes stiff, unmoving, and then collapses half on Cole. Cole shoves the body off as the transformation starts to undo itself, crawling to the nearest bush and heaving the contents of his stomach into the brush. He can barely hold himself upright, limbs shaking as adrenaline seeps away from him. He can't look at the body. He doesn't want to. Dimly, he registers a police siren, the sound of tires crunching on gravel, heavy footfalls rushing past him.

A hand clamps down on Cole's shoulder, and he jerks as he's dragged face to face with his father, eyes nearly black with fury. "Cole Brooks," he hisses, "what the hell did you do!?"

Cole finally forces himself to look at the body of Randy Stiles, expression glazed, with a vague look of surprise permanently frozen on his face. "I caught your serial killer," he replies, but his voice doesn't quite sound right to him. It's as though he's underwater, he's not really in the scene, he's simply watching it unfold in front of him, free of his body.

"Randy!?" Chief Brooks explodes. "Randy Stiles was not our damn serial killer!"

"He was a werewolf," Cole hears himself insisting. "He must have gotten bitten when he went on vacation. I saw him transform, you have to believe me--"

Chief Brooks drops Cole into a heap, expression flat with disbelief. "Werewolves?" he says. "Werewolves? What the hell are you on, Cole? Werewolves don't goddamn exist! This is real life we're talking about here! People are ACTUALLY dying, and you have the gall to suggest a f*****g werewolf?"

"I don't expect you to believe me," Cole says quietly, getting to his feet. He reaches up to touch the right half of his face and it comes away sticky and red. That's gonna scar, he thinks absently. "Are you gonna arrest me or not, Pops?"

Chief Brooks goes quiet, and Cole isn’t able to meet his eyes. He silently holsters his gun and stands there, waiting for the answer neither of them want to hear. Cole knows his father is a proud officer; he isn’t going to allow a murderer to walk free.

Which is why he isn’t surprised to hear the metallic clink of handcuffs.

Cole obediently holds his wrists out and the cool metal clamps down over them. Chief Brooks roughly shoves him towards another uniform, who tugs him aside, relieves him of his weapon, and shoves him into the back of a police car. The engine starts up, and Cole is glad to leave the grisly scene behind, but he wasn’t quite expecting to leave like this.

This is all my fault. What the hell is the city going to think when the news hits that the chief’s son murdered his partner? Falsely accused him of a crime? Cole’s life is over. If he’s lucky he might see daylight streaming through barred windows. He wonders if orange jumpsuits will look good on him, or if they’ll clash with his eyes. Will he be allowed to take visitors, or will his father disown him and refuse to let Claire see her older brother? Will Claire be alright without him? Is she going to get hurt because Cole isn’t around to protect her? Will burglars attack the house again? There are a million what-ifs streaming through Cole’s mind, none of which he can answer or wants to know the answer to.

The patrol car stops at an empty intersection, halted by a red light. “Ugh,” the uniformed officer mutters, slouching in her seat. For her, it’s an inconvenience. For Cole, it’s one precious minute more of freedom.

…Two minutes of freedom.

Three minutes of freedom.

Were red lights supposed to last this long?

Cole looks up, squinting in confusion, and he sees something odd. A strange flicker over the windshield that shouldn’t really be there at all. But the police officer isn’t reacting at all. It’s almost like she doesn’t see it.

…Or See it, Cole realizes, and that’s the last thought he has before the windshield shatters into a thousand pieces. Cole jerks and ducks his head and the policewoman yells and covers her eyes, reaching blindly for her radio. An invisible force, however, plucks it out of the air and tosses it towards the street, where it breaks apart into a dozen pieces. A glimmering green… something with wings--a moth?--flutters out of nowhere and lands on the policewoman’s face, disappearing as she hunches over and promptly begins to snore. “Honestly,” a gravelly voice says, one that Cole doesn’t recognize, and someone starts to shimmer into view. “It’s like you’re trying to make it hard to help you, boy.”

Cole squints at the bearded figure and then he blinks. “You’re the guy who was always at Monika’s bar,” he says, disbelieving. “Johan.”

Johan the half-elf sniffs, offended. “At least you remembered my name,” he grumbles. “Kudos to you for finding the perpetrator before I could, Brooks. You undoubtedly saved a life tonight… though it appears you took one in return.” He snaps his fingers, and with a click the handcuffs around Cole’s wrists unlock and drop to the seat of the car. “Consider this a thanks for wrapping up my mission for me.”

Cole rubs his wrists and furrows his brow. Mission? Johan isn’t making any sense. Did Monika say anything about Johan ever having a mission? Unless…

“You’re part of the other group Monika told me about,” he guessed. “The Secret Organization.”

“A smart Seeing mundane!” Johan claps his hands together. “Well, that’s a new one. Yes, you’re correct. I started investigating after the first animal attack, but I wasn’t able to put together all of the pieces. And then you came along and tied the whole thing up in a neat little package for me. My rank will certainly go up for this, so I’m freeing you as a thank you.”

“You’re welcome…?”

“Don’t misunderstand.” Johan’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think you’re interesting, so I’ll let you run around free and interfere with the magick world a bit longer. But this isn’t a blessing, you know, no matter how strange and wonderful you find our world. Terrible things happen to mundanes that mess with the magick world, Cole Brooks, so don’t let your guard down.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Cole grumbles, though he clearly doesn’t mean it. “What now?”

Johan shrugs. “Why do I care? All I’ve done is given you freedom. What you do with it is up to you.” He stretches and checks the time. “Hmm. Time to head back to the teleport circle. Good luck, Brooks, you’ll need it.” And with a pop, he vanishes from sight.

Cole pockets the cuffs, steals the policewoman’s keys, and retrieves his gun from the front of the car. Johan seems to have also have unlocked the doors, so it’s easy for Cole to steal out into the night. He isn’t sure what he’ll do next, but one thing is for sure: he can’t stay here. Johan was right about one thing; there’s nothing more for him in this city. The most he can do is sneak back home, steal some money, and find a motel until he can figure out what to do next.

Cole smiles bitterly. Guess I wasn’t going to see Claire again anyway. With that unhappy thought, he vanishes, leaving the patrol car to be discovered later by police, prompting a search party for the escaped criminal.

They wouldn’t find him, of course. By the time Chief Brooks arrives on the scene of the vandalized car, Cole is already climbing onto a bus driving away from the city and towards a direction Cole has never gone in his life. He isn’t entirely sure what to do next, but he does know what thing for sure.

Cole Brooks was beloved.

And then, suddenly, he wasn't.