Unlike Pluto - Everything Black (feat. Mike Taylor)

The original plan had been to retrieve lunch from the fridge, have a quick talk with Jorge about what they'd seen and what Jorge could and couldn't say. Said plan flew out the window when he opened the fridge and grabbed the brown paper bag only to see the contents moving. One peak inside -and it was really only that, the smell was so horrific- and he'd dropped the maggot-infested food into the garbage and asked a janitor to remove it immediately.

Jali waited about ten minutes- long enough for the sheriff to turn the lights off in his office and drag out Igor's pet carrier and then she rapped lightly on his door. "If we get any leads, I'll call," she said, pushing a strand of dark hair from her face and leaning against the door frame. "And thanks for not ratting me out to Belzer. Figured we were past the threat by that point."

"I let him go, too," Caelan said, waving Jorge over. The young man had hardly moved a muscle since being handed the raggedy Maine Coon. He was standing at his desk, holding her around the middle as she clawed and strained to spring away. "Put her in my office. I'm going to grab lunch and come take her home." He turned to Jali. "Go easy on him the next few days. He's feeling a bit vulnerable."

"You're coming back tomorrow, aren't you, sir?"

Caelan sighed. "Doubtful. I need to look into a few things. Let me know if there are any matches to the necromancer."

With Igor guarding the office for the next half hour, the sheriff headed out. The main headquarters resided in Glastonbury. Near enough to Hartford but spacious enough to bring in some really strange criminals without too much difficulty or worry. As discretion mattered little these days, there'd been talk of moving the CPA into Hartford as part of a police branch, but the sheriff was not a man of city life and wouldn't agree. He enjoyed the city-not so much recently- but he didn't want to live within the tall walls and paved streets. It never felt natural, and as one of the largest species of werewolves, was rather useless if he ever wanted to turn. He liked the farmland they'd set him up on. Sure, all sheriffs had been given a minimum of ten acres to call home, but it had been implied they were to use it for disposal and processing when necessary.

He headed out to a diner about a mile down the road, a cramped but cheerful little place where the miniature lot was always full, the street was lined and the gas station next door had multiple signs indicating NO parking for Nelly's. With Jorge's request in mind, he ordered a chicken Caesar to go for his friend and got himself a turkey club. Werewolves were a funny bunch- for the four-legged variety, they were difficult to fatten up. Easy to be a skinny thing lacking musculature, like Jorge, who looked some days like a cardboard cutout in tight jeans and a Marvel superhero tee most relevant to his mood that morning.

Four paws or two hands- that was the general distinction in werewolf registration records. And the more intense the transformation, the more energy it consumed (and very often, the more extreme the transformation, the more active the werewolf; after a shift, very few werewolves lounged around on the couch (if they still fit on it) watching cartoons).

A waitress had just brought his food to the tiny corner of bar he'd managed to luck into after asking the owner, Mrs. Schmidt, how her daughter was enjoying college life, when someone in the seated area screamed. The woman and the friend she was eating with had jumped to their feet, pointing at the swinging kitchen doors.

The entire roomful of patrons went still.

Caelan pushed through a couple of suddenly-turned statuesque onlookers.

At first glance everything seemed ordinary: just finger-smudged glass on the door, a few floral pictures hanging on the purple wall, and one very confused waitress standing in front of it all. The coffee cups on her tray trembled. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

There sniffing the edge of her gleaming white sneaker was a rat. Not just any old Norwegian rat common throughout Connecticut. Its tawny body was darkly stained and riddled with tumors. The skin of its paws was a charry black. Little curls of flesh flaked off its feet and tail. From beneath a bulbous head there came a flash of sharp yellow teeth. The waitress screamed and kicked it. The rat banged into the side of another patron's leg, left an oily mark on his jeans. That man let out the loudest screech thus far and toppled over an old woman on his rush away from the diseased creature.

Caelan wasn't near enough to pick the woman up off the ground- what might've been her daughter did that, but he was near enough to see a second, then a third rat drop into the unused hearth and wriggle beneath the fireplace screen to the freedom of the open floor. Then there was more screaming and a press of bodies headed for the exit. Someone got the door open, and in a matter of seconds the number of patrons dwindled to five and the owner, the waitress, one barista and a couple of very alarmed cooks.

One of the remaining ladies speared a rat with the poker, wincing at the crunch of bone and the high squeak. But it did not die, kept squealing, until the girl threw the poker across the room, said something akin to 'fuck this shit!' grabbed her purse and ran. Something thicker than blood oozed through the broken body. Caelan got over in time to see the tug of a smile on its mouth. A flash of green smoked out of its eyes then the rat went still.

Mrs. Schmidt checked to see if everyone remaining was alright, asked one of the cooks to get some of the traps down in the basement, then approached Caelan almost nervously.

"You ever seen a rat like that, sheriff?" she asked, picking up the poker with a folded apron.

He hesitated; if this were a year ago he'd have spun some tale about a disease going 'round and get the place inspected and cleared.

"Afraid so, ma'am. I'll have animal control in to find the last and any more."

"We just had our chimney sealed," she was saying. "I don't understand how anything could've come down there. You think they were trapped, maybe that's why they looked like this?"

When he got out to his truck to call it in, a small green Honda civic tore off up the street. No rear license plate. Caelan watched it swerve around the corner, heard the honk of several disrupted cars, and then it was gone.

"A good eight hours, that's all I want," he muttered. "How hard can that be?"

*

Hard.

The cat's hard yellow eyes were fixed on him from the nightstand.

She hadn't gotten in herself that was for sure. He'd locked the door. But somehow it was unlocked and there was Igor, half climbing down onto his head. Her paw smooshed into the side of Caelan's nose before he could untangle his arms from the sheet to stop her.

When he'd moved her, she switched tactics to attacking his toes as he sat up against the headboard and stretched for his cell. It was about then he saw the first tick, engorged body dropping off the cat. She was on flea and tick preventative; which made the insect's body slightly more disgusting, as Caelan ripped all the sheets off and checked himself over.

Undead ticks. Like they weren't disgusting enough.

And he'd only managed about five hours.

The morning ride into Hartford was abysmal as usual, only for him to learn the location had been changed to West Hartford Center, the site where the necromancer had raised the undead werewolves to massacre more than one hundred civilians in a little over forty minutes.

He'd thought Belzer might've been pissed, but a little more thought and a great deal of coffee had him believing Belzer had been the one to suggest the change. He parked in the garage, walked past the graffiti and memorials demonizing Weres, admiring them, and offering prayers for all the deceased. Life at the moment was rough and confusing on all sides; opinions were wild and strong and deservingly so in most cases. There was a push for clarity, for tolerance, for understanding- and an equal push to destroy that which was unknown, even if it happened to be your neighbor.

The interview was set exactly where Caelan did not want to go- into the dark, now dusty and quiet shop that had once belonged to one of Zakar's favorite possessions. Inside the magic shop the lights were low; a camera crew was taking a few shots of gothic candelabras and a examples of products formerly sold had been returned to a display case for the duration of the shoot. Belzer was tinkering in the cabinet, flicking a couple severed rabbit's paws.

Caelan met with the reporter, a bright, cheerful blonde named Dawn Fletcher who had her act together and probably a list of gotcha questions a mile long. But he was charming, and he had big bright amber eyes and a nice white smile and no ring on his finger. 

"We'd like you to transform," Dawn said ten minutes before they aired. They sat at a slight angle from one another, the open floor between them a scuffed pentagram. Producers had wanted lit candles, maybe a skull down there, but Caelan and even Belzer had warned them off of playing with black magic. They settled for the cabinet of curiosities and soft candles stacked on the shelves instead. "Show the people werewolves aren't something to be frightened of."

"A transformation is a graphic act, ma'am," Caelan replied, with an eye to Belzer and his timid assistant.

"Mhm, " she said as the lightning was adjusted. "I don't mind."

"I don't turn on command."

"But you can command the change, can't you?"

He nodded.

Her fingertips flitted over the cuff of his sleeve. She leaned in.  "We don't have to do it here in front of everyone. I represent the public interest whether or not this gaggle of goons is following. I could film somewhere more private."

Belzer stood in the background nodding. Ignoring him, Caelan himself leaned forward, all the better to address Dawn. "Permission to touch you, ma'am?"

A slight smile found its way onto her pressed pink lips. "Be my guest."

Caelan closed his eyes, gathered his thoughts and very lightly set his palm on her knee. "You feel the heat?" he asked, his fingertips just brushing the edge of her skirt.

"Wow," she said quietly, bringing her hand over his knuckles.

He gripped her knee tighter- enough that she squirmed and not because it hurt. "Quite the fever," he said in an octave meant for a lover's ear, aware now that he could hear the soft flicker of candles as the other occupants in the room had gone still to watch. "Can you feel the bones coming together in a new form?"

"Yeah," she said, flushed from her cheeks down below her shirt collar. "Yeah! I feel it."

Somewhere in the darkness Thomas Belzer swore. 

"Agreed!" Dawn exclaimed, laughing but the deadpan stare she directed a the sheriff was serious.

Caelan pulled his hand away and cracked his knuckles. "The change is an intimate act, Dawn. It ain't something most werewolves would ever think to perform except in dire circumstances or around those they trust and love."

"So you won't?"

"'Fraid I'm just too shy to do such a thing on television," he said. "Begging your pardon, of course. I'm not one for showmanship." He grinned. Dawn grinned. 

The interview began with a few softballs. Dawn was here with Caelan Harlowe, Sheriff of Connecticut Packs Association and founding member of a stunning grassroots movement to bring werewolves and other creatures into the light. He was responsible for the shocking revelation of sheriff training and has spurred global reform across the supernatural community. He enjoys mystery novels and playing pool. He's a terrible cook. 

And he grew up on the dark side of a lean, hungry world. Or at least, that's how Dawn put it before the commercial break.

"Would you say you were raised to kill?"

"Would say I was trained to kill, Dawn. In the pits there was no raising of anything except hell."

"You had a brother, Augustin LaMotte."

"I did."

"Initial reports suggest he slaughtered upwards of two-hundred innocents as part of the program rules to keep the supernatural a secret. That's excluding actual monsters hunted on the job."

"As records are made public, you'll find many sheriffs have a count even higher."

"Would you call them serial killers?"

"'Reaper' as we're called within our communities, is suitable, but yes, I reckon I would if I were so inclined. Many of them were rotten to the core. You don't grow up like that and come out alright."

"How did you come out alright?"

Caelan laughed. "Depends on what you'd judge as alright. We were bred to be mean and vicious- but when they loosed me on the streets and I could interact with regular human beings, I was surprised how kind most of them were. I hurt things that waned to hurt me. Didn't want to hurt anyone else."

"There have been a lot of changes to the organization since the necromancer of this very shop raised the dead. Not many sheriffs have kept their post through this. You actually lost yours, didn't you? Nearly lost your head, too, I've heard."

"I've done what was asked of me to protect the lives of man and wolf alike. I don't believe in killing the sheep because it glimpsed the dog protecting the flock."

"You struggled in the early to make your voice heard. Got reprimanded several times for disobedience, insubordination, failure to follow protocol. Why did they keep you for so long?"

Caelan was comfortable, relaxed, even, as he smiled at Dawn. "I'm real good at my job." Not a lie, but not entirely the truth, considering he forced himself to be so far ahead in the game the CPA needed him to figure out which pieces were still on the board.

"How did you protect the men, women, and sometimes even children you had been ordered to kill?"

"I failed a lot initially. They kept getting caught and I lacked the resources to prevent their discovery and often subsequent death. I did what I could to get them gone. But over time, with the help of a dear deceased friend, we developed a sort of witness protection program. If one of the targeted victims wasn't capable of disappearing themselves or asked for assistance, we would help."

"And who is this friend?"

"Unfortunately, for their family's protection I cannot reveal their name at this time."

The interest in Dawn's expression rapidly waned. She craned her neck around. "Hello? Carl, are you fucking with me in the middle of this interview?"

A voice behind Belzer piped up, "No way."

Dawn scooted her chair closer. "I need five, 'kay?"

"What'd you hear?" Caelan asked, dropping his hand to his holster. 

Dawn frowned; the sheriff was on his feet reaching for her. "Seriously, no one hears that? It's a voice. A man. Sweet, makes me think of leather and velvet. It's says, 'Don't tease the devil in his own home.'"

The lights flickered. There was a mellow tone of equipment powering down and then the electric lights went out. One by one, the candles extinguished, and as Caelan passed Dawn from the arms of himself to the nearest cameraman, every soul in the pitch dark room heard a distinct cackle.

Sheriff, it seems you forget yourself. The wolf does not guard the sheep. It thins the herd. Allow me to remind you.