He appeared in the center of the living room without a sound. Chico almost drowned in his own beer and even Vopros jolted. He was surrounded by such an aura of silent fury they felt the need to stand up.

«What. Happened.» he grumbled like an approaching storm.

«Jefe this was not...»

«You, dastardly ragtag band of malignant curses on my life! How in the bloody hell did you end up right in the middle of the most vicious werepeople attack in the recent history of the Order!» he screamed, now, on top of his lungs.

«Shut the fuck up! There are people recovering here!» the counter scream came, so obvious and calculated. Banshee exited her room, leaning against the doorframe, still pale from the events of the day. She could move, but she still sported a good half-face shiner and tender flesh and bones.

«You don't tell me to shut it, it is I who... Jesus Christ woman, what the hell did happen to you!» again, not a question and he really sounded way more annoyed than worried. Banshee limped slightly towards the table, her hands moving in the air as she spoke.

«The werefuckers half-mauled me, thank you, you look peachy from the dry-cleaner!»

«How did you end up in the hands of werepeople again! And why wasn't I informed the instant that happened!»

«Because I called River!» she yelled.

The scream flew like a butterfly and stung like a 200 stones bee.

Garaham remained so speechless, Chico could finally jump in.

«Jefe, Banshee has been going to the Academy, so we could make contact with Irissa, and try to pry some information from her. She was there actually at school when the werepeople attacked. She telepathically called me, Vopros and River, but just because Irissa was going all Frozen again.»

Garaham took a deep breath, glaring at Banshee as if she has just struck him to death with a chainsaw. Vopros showed him a chair so the man could sit and focus his attention on Chico, as the Mexican launched in an almost perfect recap of what had happened in the days before. Meanwhile, Banshee, moving incredibly slow, reached the table as well and sat, opposite from Garaham. Vopros put some vodka in her glass. Garaham teleported the glass in the sink, and this time he didn't bring it back, all while he kept his attention on Chico. Banshee frowned but said nothing.

«So, you thought that having the Enforcer of the Coven of the man that has tried to frame us was a better idea than calling me.» Garaham said, in the end.

«You hate to fight, Jefe.» Chico pointed out.

«These are werepeople, this is different.» he lifted his gaze, now looking for Banshee's eyes, as serious as ever. «This is personal.»

«I'm not a nineteen-years-old, scaredy-cat. I can take them now, and I did.» she replied, maybe as serious.

«Oh, she did. You had to see her. Seriously, Jefe, it wasn't a walk in the park, but we were doing good.» Chico felt the need to confirm.

«Werepeople are not to be taken lightly. I read the report on the school, it was a massacre. Sixty dead, eighty severely injured, more than a hundred injured, between personnel and students. It could have been worse, sure. But even prioritizing evacuation over fighting, we lost so many.» his voice was strained, as he talked, suddenly looking at his joined hands. «Imagine how I felt when Mariposa told me you all had been seen on the scene. What the hell were you waiting for, before calling me?» he snapped. Chico spoke again.

«We have come here, and River has healed us. Banshee was beaten up pretty bad.»

A dangerous glare passed in Garaham's eyes.

«Of course, that oaf is good in two things, and how could he avoid showing off both of them?» he noticed Vopros's eyebrow rising. «I know about the mammoth, it's already a story going around the whole Order with giggles of fangirling.» he specified, dryly.

«I had six broken ribs, three teeth missing, a dislocated shoulder, two broken thumbs, and a sprained ankle. It hurt like hell and back, but after him, I can be pretty positive to be on my feet in a day or two.» Banshee explained. «He's good with healing, huh? You said he could just morph.»

«He can just morph. He can do that naturally. So, it leaves him all the possible focus to heal his internal injuries from morphing so fast. He's continuously healing himself. His great, big secret.» Garaham spat in disdain. «He apparently learned so much on himself he can use it on others now. Father will be delighted.»

The Pollos exchanged a glance, but the subject diversion lasted less than those same sentences.

«Did you at least learn something about Staccato from that strange girl?» Garaham asked, almost immediately.

«We have a theory, about Staccato's identity.» Banshee raised her hand as if she were in class. Garaham looked at her, still serious, saying nothing. She understood nevertheless. «We think he's Jägermann.»

Garaham's face was unfazed.

«Are you accusing a Councilor of everything that is going on?»

«Listen. He's short as shit. He's German. He's a dipshit.» Banshee started counting on her fingers. «He surely had access to all the information about me, he is the kind of person who could muster with no problems at all pushing around an experienced Enforcer like yer brother like a sack of rats...»

«... which incidentally is what's inside River's brain. Do go on.» Garaham couldn't help but say, but he looked now very interested in Banshee's recap.

«And, Jefe.» Chico chimed in, exchanging a glance with the others. «He surely knew about the school.»

«Plus, he knows Grasshopper. He sees him all the time in Hospital.» Vopros added.

«To this, add that a Councilor surely has the power to rise an entire cemetery with a ritual.» Banshee concluded. «And he wasn't there during the trial, too!»

«Many Councilors weren't. And he's not a Necromancer.»

«He's from the Research Division, he would have had access to any kind of ritual or magical object!» Banshee protested.

«Even Truedeath,» Chico whispered, with a clear reverence in his voice.

Everyone had tried to ignore the fact that Chico had come back from that adventure looking like a blind man. Even if he had ceased crying ectoplasmic tears, his eyes were still white, as were his hair. Garaham hadn't been able to Dispel the effect that had hit him, and the reason was that he had been hit by a return wave of the power used to raise all the dead in the cemetery. One of the Seven Majestic Forces' powers. Truedeath.

Garaham remained silent, thinking, for ten good minutes, then passed his hands on his face.

«Jägermann is Staccato. This is a serious accusation.»

«Chief.» Banshee leaned on the table, looking him in his eyes. «Irissa shouldn't have been there.»

«And what does that mean?»

«I talked some, with Irissa and your brother. They could be simple-minded, but I saw them, even together with Staccato and I know he cares about them. And the day of the attack, Irissa shouldn't have been at school: they had a Coven meeting. She was late in exiting because she remained with me to help me with me hair. If she had gone minutes before, she wouldn't have been a target.»

«And who would know about Coven assignments?» Vopros asked, rhetorically.

«Jägermann.» Garaham sighed. «He would just have had to sneak a peek into Blair's office. I'll admit. It sticks.»

«If it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, no doubt he's Jägermann.» Banshee said, frowning at the lack of laughs. «You know? German? Goose step? Jesus wept, tough crowd, eh?»

«This puts us in an even more difficult position. Because if a Councilor is involved, he'll be watching us.» Garaham stood up from the chair.

«So, what do we do, Chief?» Vopros asked.

«You have to find a way to know what's his endgame. What's his connection to the trial and Justin. In the meantime, I'll prepare a plan. We will unmask him, publicly, during the concert.»

The Pollos exchanged yet another look.

«But Reyansh said that his coat is some kind of super-magic artifact even he couldn't pierce!» Banshee reminded him. Of course, she had told him everything about the divination.

Garaham smirked.

It was such a rare view.

«We don't need to pierce it. We just need to briefly dispel it. And I, for once, have a plan.»

https://youtu.be/w2bMwB8TlAk

Chico looked at the child and smiled. Carlos was diligently finishing cleaning the little temple with all the enthusiasm of the youngsters with a purpose. Chico had spent the afternoon teaching him, something he hadn't indulged in for too much time now.

They had sat near the 'Nganga and Chico had given the boy a good, sugary snack. And while the boy was happily eating his waffle with syrup and hot milk with honey, Chico had spoken about the culture of his people, about the rituals and the mysteries of the spirits.

His deep voice was delicate but never boring. He could make Carlos feel the importance of his words while, at the same time, focus his attention on interesting spots and parts, smiling in seeing the light in his enormous childish eyes as he unraveled mysteries with careful touches. Not too much, but enough to keep his interest, to guide him with care on the road he was sure the boy was made to follow.

He had found Carlos when the little boy had entered his temple at night. Chico was trying to study a particularly complicated spell. He was in the back room, and the little boy, not the most expert thief, had entered one of the windows, opening it with a small swiss army knife, and had started rustling around, searching for anything he could sell.

Chico had caught him right in the act, and the little, filthy boy wearing an old t-shirt of some sizes too big, a pair of tattered shorts and no shoes had looked at him with fear and aggression, pushed into a corner by the Mexican's intimidating presence. Carlos wasn't facing the easygoing, bad taste dressing Mexican the Pollos knew and loved, but his most serious face: the face of the Palero, the religion paragon of the barrio.

Of course, Chico had given the boy something to eat and drink, he was as thin as a skeleton and found some old clothes who were too big as well, but at least clean and whole. The boy, just like a stray dog, had initially looked at him with suspicion but had then accepted what was given him. And then blatantly asked what he had to do in exchange.

From that moment on, Chico had taken the boy under his wing. There was something in Carlos's black eyes, so huge and already filled with a suffering a kid shouldn't feel, that tugged deep inside him, to strings he fought very hard to keep hidden from the rest of the world. The spitting image of another kid, with eyes as huge as his, forever left with doubt about his own origins, torn away from his father and his land by the hands of another caring man, launched in a future he couldn't have ever fathomed.

Promises unkept, shattered dreams, until Magic appeared, requesting yet another toll.

He always thought about helping Carlos develop magic. He was still young enough to hope the process would be passed through without incidents, and if there was someone who would have found a new, good life in the Order it was him. His parents barely recognized they had him, with all his brothers and sisters to feed, one less was but a blessing, proof was that when Chico went to their house to ask if he could keep Carlos around for temple matters, all he got back were empty stares and indifferent nods from a woman who must have been a beauty in her younger years but was now completely devastated by pregnancies. The father was nowhere to be seen

During the years he had prepared a special corner for Carlos in the back room, with a clean bed, a chest for his clothes and stuff, and, in the end, all but officially adopted him.

He was a smart boy. Chico had read some of his essays, albeit young and with many grammar errors he had a deep understanding of facts of the world children shouldn't.

At the end of their lesson, Chico urged him to go and find his friends, and the boy went towards the temple's phone in the back room.

Chico sat in front of the 'Nganga, feeling the usual little shivers at the base of his neck. The feeling of spirits and magic all around the totem always had a calming effect on his nerves. The silence of the empty temple, the daily routine of religion. Something he direly needed to run back to, sometimes. He closed his eyes and started to meditate, searching for peace in his heart, basking in the calmness around him and the quiet voices of the spirits.

His mind ran to the day before, to the attack.

And to Eva's terrifying, spectacular wolf-eyes.

The anger, the pain, the determination to get what she wanted, what almost every one of her species wanted, was inspiring and terrible at the same time. The werepeople were the Mages' most tragical heritage, and their raging war never saw a winner in centuries.

But somehow something felt like it was changing. And if the Order was any proof of it, Mages hated changing to the bone.

He remained there, meditating. Trying to do so without passing thoughts of shiny white fur, glistening on bloodstained snow.