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                As it

turns out nothing untoward happened during the nighttime hours. No odor; no

secret, dire warnings. Perhaps he figured there was little point in being

persistent. Heck, for that matter, maybe he really wanted us to try. Unbalanced

or not, he just might be tired of living. I knew I would be, under such dark circumstances.                Maggie

tried her best to down some breakfast, but I was thinking she was going to have

to eat over at Verona's place again. I hadn't asked where they got their last

meal from, and I really didn't want to know. It was hard to be on a moral high

horse when the people you associated with were killers too. Yes, I know there was a difference. But when it boiled right down to it, they were murderers. They simply did it in a neater and cleaner way, ridding society of some of its worst. Everything and everybody had to eat. This guy was just cruel and sick. I think he did it out of fun, or maybe,

now in his later years, out of sheer boredom.                  She

seemed shy about going out now alone, and I thought nothing less of her for her

discretion.  I hardly wanted to be her

partner out there, because with my luck, I'd become a suspect, or at the very

least, be considered a witness. And I had a feeling the police were on the

alert, even if they were looking for an animal and not a person.                 I was

tempted to break off the engagement as a mistake, largely because I wasn't sure

I liked where this was taking me. I could go back home and try to live life

normally. I shook my head sadly. There was no going back. I really did know it,

but it was such a longing inside me. Leave this madness and go back to how

things once were.                I

laughed at myself. I was referring to my life with Maggie, and that wasn't all

that long of a stretch of time. My life before her was bland and two

dimensional. With her around, it was bright and full of life. And yes, death

too. But I could live with that. This place, and this Mr. Fish; well, I think

that I wasn't made of stern enough stuff with the big city and its hidden dangers. I hadn't even liked watching horror

films before all this started, and now I was as embroiled into it in real life as

a man could possibly get.                I

picked up one of the confiscated knives that had been brought home from that night at the park. I didn't like weapons, but I was thinking that it might be

necessary to travel with one from now on. I doubt it would be much good against

anything more than humans, but at least it would provide some comfort to me as

I walked in the open. I had no intention of staying cooped up here in the

hotel. It was nice, but I was no longer here for the fun of it.                I ended

up putting on a new sports coat, and a new silk shirt that Maggie had picked

out. She did like her clothes, and when she stepped out into the sunshine with

me, we looked like a modern day Orphan Annie and Daddy Warbucks. Of course, her

dress was nothing that cutesie, but a stylish number from Sax Fifth

Avenue.  She had wanted the leather

number, which I liked, but I put my foot down. No leather. She settled on a

nice Derek Lam number and she was as sharp looking as any runway model. Lookout

Verona!                We got

to her apartment, feeling better, at least temporarily, and we settled into the

chairs to listen to what they had to say. I produced the letter, and Verona very

nearly burned it on the spot. Her father had a calmer head. "It stinks, but

then, I have smelled this before. He is as he says; a netherwalker. I almost

feel sorry for him, but he has now shown us how dangerous he really is."                "I don't

like your tone of voice."                "Me

either!" said Maggie.                "He is

not a zombie, as you young folks are fond of calling such creatures. Those are

imaginary creatures, existing only in the mind and on film. You exist as either

living or dead. Therefore, he is living. 

But his life has been suspended between two forms. He is part feral and

part human. Call it feral in a human body."                I knew

a little about that. There were patches of my memory from those times in the

park that were blank. So I did almost feel for him, for those that I did remember

were pretty grim.                Reynaud

continued. "If he were anyone else, I would contemplate removing the needles to allow his body to resume its natural cycle. But doing that would require

his permission and cooperation, and I for one don't think we would get it. His

mind is already so far gone as to make a fully feral form highly dangerous. "                This got

me thinking. "Maggie and Verona seem to be in control when they're in that

form. I know movies aren't real life, but they are often depict werewolves as

being mindless once the change hits them."                Lupenia

blushed. "Yes dear, we have our heads about us, but it's a whole other world

once we change. Our senses are sharper, our claws are sharper, and our needs

are greater."                That last

word hinted at something very sexual. And I already was aware of that. The

funny thing was the difference between Maggie and Verona. It was yet another

mystery, and I think I would have preferred that one over the greater challenge

that lay before us.                  "So

then, what you're saying is that all the old tales are based off of werewolves

gone mad?"                "Yes

dear." Her manner was suddenly a bit shy.                "Does

this have something to do with me?"                "No

dear, I don't see how it can in the long run."                "In the

long run? What the hell does that mean?"                            Reynaud

silenced his wife. "She should not have mentioned it."                "MENTIONED

WHAT?" I yelled. I hated to be left in the dark.                "Calm

down son!" He sucked in a breath and held it a moment. "There are things we

know, but we do not talk about."                "I don't

give a damn Reynaud. If there is something I should know, then God damn it,

tell me."                His

face looked like he had eaten a bowl full of silver. "It's not a secret, yet I

find it difficult to discuss with you here."                "Why?

Is it some sort of family secret?"                "Yes,

maybe."                "If I'm

supposed to be part of your family, then what harm is there in telling me? It's

not like I'm going to run out and broadcast it to the world. They'll snag me

and put me in a straight jacket quicker than you can say Bobs your uncle."                "That

just it son. It's not from our family, but possibly from yours."                I felt

a shiver run down my back. "Mine?"                "Sit

down son. This may take a while."                I did

as I was told, unaware that I was actually on my feet, pacing the room. My

fingers felt achy and I swore that my knuckle hair was darker. But it must have

been a trick of the light, for when I looked again, it was pale and normal.                "Edward,

what did your mother ever say to you about what she knew concerning her parents

ancestral home?"                "Not

much. I knew it was French, but outside of that, she never spoke much about it.

I do remember my grandparents, and she would talk to them in French, but I wasn't

fluent enough to follow."                He

nodded. "As I suspected. It was wise to keep you out of earshot until you came

of age. There is no point in filling your head with wonder and then being

teased and mocked by the other children. That way leads to revenge. And nothing

can carry out revenge like a werewolf."                "Great!

What does this have to do with me?"                "Have

you ever heard of the Beast of Gévaudan?"                "Uh,

that would be a big fat no!"                "I

thought as much. He was one of our kind, driven mad by some affliction they

were never able to identify or treat."                "Great!

So there have been other freaks running around in the past. When was this?"                Reynaud

consulted with his wife.  "It started in

the summer of seventeen sixty four. As far as the stories go, the first attack

was foiled by the presence of bulls in a field. The would-be victim found

refuge in a herd, and they kept the animal at bay."                "The

next girl was not so lucky. Her name was Janne Boulet. She was killed near a place

called  Les Hubacs. She had her throat ripped out and her body was tron to bits.The killings went on

for years. Even the King of France got involved."                "But

someone finally killed him?"                "Yes,

someone did. His name was Jean Chastel. He was one of us, a true werewolf, but

he did what he had to, to end the terror gripping the countryside. He poured

himself a few silver alloy bullets and using a black powder gun, shot the

culprit death. That was in the summer of seventeen sixty seven, three years

after the rampage started."                I felt

myself shivering. "Don't tell me. You think that whoever this guy was, he was

related to me? How many people did he kill?"                   "We don't know for certain, but maybe up to one hundred. Your

family moved here and assumed a new name, yet one which the right people would

recognize. It's not inconceivable that this maniac from Gévaudan was your ancestor

a few times removed. Or, he could be from some other family. We can't say until

we determine what your proper family lineage is."                He

looked at Maggie. "And I believe that we will need to do the same for you. Lines

get lost, and sometimes reappear out of thin air. But if your mother was one of

us, then that means your father had some of the blood too. It could account for

his insanity. The mental processes of a werewolf can be too much to deal with,

and the sudden exposure to an unfamiliar smell or sight can drive even the most

firmly seated mind into a tail spin. "                She

looked stunned. "You think my real father might have the werewolf gene?" But

she was a bright kid. "That does make sense. The last I knew he was still a

raving madman. This explanation would go far to say why that was so. But why didn't

mother pick up on it?"                "Maybe she

did dear," said Lupenia. "Like calls to like. But if the "were" never took hold

of him, there was little she could do to spark it. I mean, outside of biting him..."

She let her words trail off. There was definitely a rebuke to her daughter in

her tone.                "Mother!

I was doing what I thought was best!"                "For

whom dear; him or you? The heat makes us do crazy things, so I cannot hold you

responsible for following your instincts, but your actions have started things

in motion that may well instigate even greater challenges ahead. Edward may

very well have had that coin left in place by his parents to forestall his

transformation. If he is related to the Beast, what's to say he too will not

become such an agent of horror as the one we now seek to destroy?"                "Thanks

Lupenia. You know just how to make me feel better about myself."                "Sorry

Edward, but this is no time for holding back the truth, no matter how ugly it

is. If you remove that coin, there is the chance that you will be just as bad

as Mr. Fish. We would be responsible for unleashing another horror on this

city, and I for one am not prepared to do that."                "You?

What about me? I'm the one who would be going out of control!"                Maggie meanwhile

had gotten on her laptop and pulled up several websites that listed the beast.

I can't say that any of them were very informative, but they did expand on our

limited knowledge. The funny thing was that one of the sites mentioned the

beast as a she. I was more inclined to think of evil people being male, but why

not a female too? It was a lot to think about, and so for the time being, we

stayed as a group and said nothing more of our troubles.                On a

rooftop overlooking Verona's apartment, there was a man standing in sharp

contrast to the sky. The wind ruffled his overcoat, and his mustache flowed in

the wind. The wrinkles in his face were dark valleys, hiding traces of ghosts

and ghouls in their shadows. He leaned on a cane tipped with silver, and while

his hands seemed to quiver, he had made his way to the roof via the back alley

wall. He stared for the longest time, occasionally rubbing the top of the cane

as he pondered. The name that had been engraved there so long ago was nearly

worn off now. Albert could still see the original owner's face, a twisted mask of fright

and horror. He had gone down in a heap, and by the time Albert was finished

with him, there was little left to identify.                He

hefted the ebony stick and jumped back down to the ground. The thud was

sickening to hear, but he limped off, not waiting for the healing to kick in.

There would be plenty of time for that later. He was feeling hungry now. Time to

feed.