stillcounts | PSL: Night is falling like a bloody axe

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PSL: Night is falling like a bloody axe

It was true that Julius Selwyn had gone to a party that night, as would be gossiped about liberally the next day. He'd gotten a bit drunk and flirted with Amanda Welch, who encouraged it, and Susan Martin, who permitted it, and - a few people claimed - Ben Hightower, who had not appreciated it in the slightest.

It was also true that he was not drunk at all now, so-late-it-was-early, and that he was wandering a mostly deserted street in St. John's Wood in a distinctly more utilitarian getup than he'd been wearing earlier in the evening. He had a loose-fitting leather jacket over what the very sharp-eyed might identify as a holster housing an antique pistol, giving him the air of a boy who was unsure whether he was playing a Hell's Angel or a pirate. The image was further confused by the large, antique book under his arm.

There was plenty of moonlight. That not entirely incidental.

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Plenty of moonlight was the kind of night she'd been waiting for. Of course Rachel had come to the Evening Standard to report on crime, old and new. And as part of the reporting staff it wasn't unusual for her to scour police reports and put her ear to the ground for rumors at the local emergency rooms--sorry, the A&Es.

A pattern, after all, could mean an interesting story in the works. It could lead to any manner of criminal.

Or any manner of anything.

She'd thought the street deserted, but as she stepped out of the narrow alley between two blocks of townhouses, a figure not far up the street caught her eye. A squint or two and the random figure became familiar.

How very interesting.

She sauntered up, casual as can be, smiling. "What's a nice boy like you doing in a neighborhood like this, at this hour?"

The charming smile was a reflex, but it couldn't entirely mask his surprise. (He hoped it masked the reflexive chagrin - the previous times she'd caught up to him had been in places like libraries or restaurants that were much, much easier to explain his way through.)

"I think you stole my line," he said, brightening a little as she came closer. "Though I suppose 'nice' is stretching it a bit for both of us." Julius wasn't drunk, and wouldn't attempt to play it, but he could play mildly tipsy to buy himself some time.

"You say the sweetest things."

He sounded just a bit worse for drink but she was having a hard time buying that. At this hour? With a book under his arm?

"Trying to find a nice place to sit and read?"

"The party was too loud," he said, with a grin, "but there is a distinct lack of sofas out here."

She was far too quick, that was the problem; she was going to stay and ask him questions, which would normally be fine (if aggravating). But under the circumstances, it was far from ideal. He hadn't planned this with the idea of a civilian present.

"Mm. Yeah, I did notice that."

She absolutely was going to stay and ask him questions. There was nothing about this even approaching what one normally does on an evening; she was beyond curious.

"Must be a hell of a book to get you to abandon a party and search a deserted street at this hour of the night. What's it about?"

Not to mention: peppering him with questions gave him less of an opportunity to do any questioning of his own.

Though it was a bit cliche, he could absolutely hear an imaginary clock ticking in the background of the conversation. It was making his usual method of "charming deflection" more of a stretch than usual.

"I wasn't looking for a place to read, I just... didn't want to go home yet and didn't want to leave the book at the party." ...arguably all true statements.

He glanced up the street, briefly, an almost unconscious motion before looking back to here. "Wait, were you following me? That's very flattering, but it can't have made for an interesting night."

"Not that you aren't without a certain charm, but, sorry--I wasn't following you." She smiled, spreading her hands, what can you do?

She realized this was going to open the door to being asked what she was doing out here. Best to head it off. "Can't a girl just want some fresh air on a quiet street?" A quiet street nowhere near her home or place of employment. At ridiculous o'clock. Plausible, totally plausible.

"I'm not going to buy yours if you refuse to buy my mine," Julius said, resigned but amused despite himself. "That hardly seems equitable. Are we going to stand in the street and be clever at one another until sunrise?"

...no, not if he was right about what was wandering this neighborhood. But he hardly expected she'd believe the truth even if he were mad enough to say it.

Then again, he was dressed like a pirate ship's librarian. Maybe she would.

Her smile remained in place, though it grew a bit tight at the edges, the first faint sign of resignation.

"On any other night, I'd love nothing more," she allowed, "but I can't tonight. I have other plans."

It was likely time to come clean, wasn't it?

"I'm chasing a story."

...Just not all in one go.

Julius' expression did not become suspicious. Not exactly. Suspicion would imply doubt over what her story was, and he had a sinking feeling he knew all too well.

"Let me take a stab at it: an attack, or possibly several attacks. Large animal of some type, but a set of niggling details don't make a blind bit of sense?"

He could be wrong. He didn't think so.

Well. Time to drop that act.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Is that what you're after, too?"

A pause, and then:

"...Please tell me, whatever it is, you weren't planning on smacking it with that book."

"Yes, I plan to firmly bop it on the nose," he says, arch. "For fuck's sake. What are you planning to do?"

In fairness, Julius is the one of the two of them visibly (if absurdly) armed.

She sighs the kind of sigh one sighs when one is perhaps dealing with a small child, or someone else comparably unreasonable.

"I was going to report on it," she replies, evenly, "that's kind of my thing."

A moment, and then: "...I've got a stun gun in my pocket. Should worse come to worse."

"That would normally have been..." Julius pauses mid-word, as if he's heard something. He completely drops the pretense that he's tipsy as he listens to whatever it is. Surely a distant howl can be chalked up to an overactive imagination.

"I'm not going to convince you to leave, which means we both need to get somewhere more defensible than the middle of the street," he says, abrupt.

"The alley."

She takes his sleeve, tugging. He's dropped all pretense and so has she, this is no time for games or coy behavior.

"We can see the street and there's a couple of opportunities for shelter or hiding ourselves from view, if needed."

He nods - it's not perfect, but almost anything is better than the middle of the street.

Once they get between the buildings, he produces a small leather pouch and draws a line (thinner than he'd prefer) across the entrance with fine white crystals. Should have just brought the whole box of Tilden's, he thinks, grimly, but he doesn't actually have a bag that let him carry an unlimited amount of equipment and salt is heavy.

"Right, so, this is going to get weirder before it gets more normal, sorry," he says.

"I had a feeling."

She'd usually be irritated at finding someone else out on the trail of the same story, the same investigation, as she was. But in this case? She was glad for the company.

"So what's your theory? For the record, I don't have one. I just knew something wasn't right."

He held up one long finger in a silent wait gesture. Then he dropped into a crouch muttering something under his breath and touched the line of salt, lightly enough not to disturb the line of it. The salt glowed orange for a split second, then went back to ordinary salt-in-the-dark gray.

Julius looked up at her, then, still from his crouch.

"Pretty sure it's a werewolf," he said, with the cheer of someone who entirely expected to be flatly disbelieved.

"Oh," Rachel replied, with the cheer of someone who was very clearly faking it, "a werewolf. Why didn't I think of that?"

She genuinely hadn't. All sorts of other ideas had come to mind when she'd started out following the police reports and rumors, but not a werewolf.

"I take it we stay inside the circle?"

"I would advise it, yeah. Unless I shout 'run,' and then you should do that instead." Julius got to his feet, retrieving the book he'd momentarily set down. As he started flipping through it, he said, "I don't suppose you've much experience with flintlock pistols."

Edited 2016-05-17 22:58 (UTC)

"I've seen them in the movies," she offered. Hey, he'd asked.

"But it can't be that hard to figure out, right? Let me see."

"You know, 'I've seen them in films' really should not be a qualification to handle a firearm, but I can't do everything at once."

He shifted the book to his left hand and drew the pistol. "It's loaded and there's no safety, so for god's sake don't point it at either of us. The effective range is only about 10 meters, so you won't need to use it unless something's gone terribly wrong."

The pistol was old, though not especially ornate. It was about 8 or 9 inches long, heavy for its size.

The gun was heavier than she anticipated. Any quip she had ready vanished along with her devil-may-care attitude, just for a moment, when she had to heft it unexpectedly.

She turned away from him to examine it--see, she was listening, no pointing it at him.

"So me and this gun are the last resort. Got it. In the meantime: what are you doing?"

"I," he said, returning his attention to the book, "am going to attempt an especially tricky bit of magic."

Because fuck it, if they were about to be attacked by a werewolf, he didn't have time to play coy. She'd believe him or she wouldn't.

He could all but hear his mentor listing the ways he'd been sloppy in the past 15 minutes. It wasn't as if his not-actually-present criticism was wrong, but Julius had other priorities at present.

It was fantastic claim, the sort that would usually get a person side-eyed. But Rachel had heard enough in her time, believed enough, to believe this.

"All right." She lowered the weapon, keeping it at her side, her eyes scanning their surroundings. "Let me know if I need to do anything."

Like running, perhaps. Or taking cover should things go wrong.

"On the bright side," he said, as he continued looking for whatever it was he was looking for in the book, "if I'm just bonkers, you can always write that instead. My father would choke."

Which, the way he brightened as he said it, was not the worst thing in the world.

That was definitely a howl, and definitely closer. His smile faded.

Her eyebrows went up, and she was on the verge of replying when the howl sounded again. She went still, fingers unthinkingly gripping the gun just a little more tightly.

"...I could write that anyway," she said, with a cheerfulness they both knew was forced. "I support antagonizing disapproving parents whenever an opportunity presents itself."

"Don't actually - you know what, never mind, if I cock this up it'll be moot anyway."

Because one or both of them would be dead, yes.

Julius resisted - barely - the urge to say aha aloud when he found what he was looking for. He didn't bother to explain when he began chanting (in very cliche Latin) under his breath and then looked up and sketched a sort of figure 8-ish symbol in the air that appeared to hover there, a faint phosphorescent green.

Julius was all for avoiding boredom, but "throat ripped out by a werewolf who'd caught their scent by now, surely" was a bit too interesting for his tastes.

She didn't answer. But she understood what he meant by that, as sobering a thought as it was.

Rachel's attention was momentarily captured by the glowing figure Julius drew in the air; her gaze lingered over it before she refocused on their surroundings, trying to catch any sign of anything getting near.

"What was that?"

"If I've done it correctly," he said, "it should give the person back control long enough not to rip our throats out. Well, unless they're a psychopath who'd enjoy it anyway, then we're back to the 'shooting them' plan."

He exhaled, and glanced back at her. "I'm trying to find out if there's a pack running around, or just one unlucky person."

Thus, presumably, why he was out in the first place.

"...a pack hadn't occurred to me."

To be fair, a werewolf had only barely occurred to her.

"I knew something wasn't adding up about the police reports. I figured just one... person. Was up to something."

Julius glanced at the sigil, still hanging faintly in the air.

"It's funny, how many things don't add up that people just shrug off. But in this particular case, something doesn't add up even if you do take werewolves as a given."

He looked back at her. "You know, even if it were a perfectly ordinary murderous human being, I don't know that being out here alone in the small hours of the morning is standard journalistic procedure."

"That's why I get the best scoops and the occasional award, and others don't," she says, offhandedly--standard journalistic procedure, please--so offhandedly that it's pat, it's clear it's what she always says when this is brought up. It's a show of bravado that also neatly sidesteps the legitimate question of her safety that observation carries.

"So say I do take werewolves as a given." She does, at this point. "What doesn't add up?"

He gave her an arch look, at her answer, but didn't press. Instead, he tackled the question.

"When werewolves are on their own, it's usually because they're so new they haven't attracted anyone's attention yet or because they're old enough they choose not to bother being social. But this M.O. doesn't look like either of those. Too messy for the latter, not messy enough for the former."

A simplification, but that was the gist.

She was entirely used to arch looks by now, though his gave her fleeting pause. She liked him, or something, she supposed.

Rachel nodded, still keeping her attention on their surroundings. "So something's not right. Is he injured? Cast out? ...Not a werewolf?"

"Possible, worrying, unlikely but can't be ruled out," he responded, in order. "I don't know if I want to know what a werewolf would have to do to get shunned by other werewolves."

Just kidding, Julius wanted to know everything.

"Whatever the reason, though, the longer no one checks, the greater probability they infect someone instead of just killing them."

"...Oh. Good thinking." Good thinking that she hadn't done because, you know, while the possibility of werewolves was one she was willing to entertain, it was just a possibility. Leaving her not at all well-versed.

"For the sake of curiosity--" The silence around them is once again pierced by a howl, closer now. "How does one get infected? Tell me in the abstract so I can do my best to keep it from becoming an actuality."

Rather than a deep dive into shifter lore, to the extent it was understood by outsiders at all, Julius goes for the simple answer.

"Scratch or a bite from an attack you survive. There's some debate as to whether the skin has to be broken, though frankly I'd prefer not to find out firsthand."

He exhales. "The salt barrier should slow it down and the glyph should, in theory, clear its mind but I'd appreciate it if you shot the thing in case it looks like it wants to maul either of us. There's not a known cure."

"Well. That's sobering." Note to self: consider the possibility of gun ownership before the next bout of hey that's a crazy-sounding story, let me go out in the middle of the night to check it out. As much as running into Julius had been a potential wrench in the works, she was suddenly glad she had.

"I may have to let him get a bit close, if it comes to that." She gave him an apologetic look. Movies, you know.

Julius shrugged. "I wasn't planning to have any help at all, frankly, so if what I'm trying fails, I'd just have been out of luck." A massive understatement, considering the stakes.

After a pause, he said, "I suppose that, assuming we survive, it would be a bit much to ask you not to write about this." He sounded rueful but resigned.

The pause on her end stretched longer. Part of it was the realization that she hadn't been the only one sort of flying by the seat of her pants with regard to backup or personal safety.

She wasn't sure, really, if that was reassuring or not.

But part of the pause was her giving careful consideration to her answer.

"...The Times isn't interested in publishing this kind of story. Don't worry."

He probably noticed the neat evasion of whether she would have written about it despite his request.

Julius raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Well, I suppose that's - "

He broke off abruptly as the sound of claws on pavement, like those of a very large dog, became evident. He whirled just as a wall of dark fur and muscle hit his salt barrier like a battering ram.

She heard the sound, processed it to recognition a fleeting moment before the creature hit the barrier. Her arm flew up immediately but it took all her willpower not to fire off the shot right away.

Like she'd told him: all her experience with flintlock pistols came from seeing them in the movies. She was no expert. But she seemed to remember that they were a one-shot kind of deal.

As much as she wanted to fire, she retained just enough presence of mind to realize maybe this wasn't the right moment.

"Out of curiosity..." She'd raised her arm, her jacket had bumped against her hip, the weight of the stun gun reminding her she'd carried it tonight just in case.

"Not that I intend to get close enough but if it came to it, what are my chances with a stun gun?"

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PSL: Night is falling like a bloody axe

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I thought I responded to this a week ago *sob*

no worries no worries

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I thought I responded to this a week ago sob