by Ethan Proud
“I have a few house-calls to make.” Ruckstead stood up from his desk and grabbed his hat from the peg stand near the door. “Let Wells out at noon if his attitude has changed.”
Deputy Kerfield opened his mouth to ask which houses the sheriff was calling, when the door slammed shut.
***
Jameson Killdeer opened the door for Ruckstead. Her sleeves were rolled up revealing a kraken tattoo curling around her forearm; one of the mythic beast’s tentacles extended down her index finger. Her corded muscles bulged, and her hand formed a fist.
“Sheriff,” she said tersely. She had dark brown eyes, full lips, and wild curly hair. She would have been considered beautiful if she hadn’t been so broad. Her eyes alighted on the muzzleloader at his hip.
“The hostility isn’t warranted, ma’am. I’m simply here to ask a few questions,” Ruckstead said, recalling that the last time he had stopped in had been to arrest her husband for a battery charge after a bar fight.
Think of the devil, her husband stepped into the frame behind her. If Jameson was broad then Jorgen was gigantic. He stood near seven feet and weighed in near three hundred pounds. He beamed when he saw Sheriff Ruckstead.
“Come in,” he said in a voice that sounded as gritty as the salt that had undoubtedly coated the rigging of his ship. Jameson moved so the sheriff could come in.
“Brandy?” Jorgen asked, but he was already pouring three glasses. The molasses colored liquid bubbled up to the brim of a cup that was easily enough to ensure that Ruckstead would not be making any other visits that day. He pulled up a chair at the table that had been refurnished from the wheel of a seafaring vessel. The small three room building largely resembled the officer’s cabin of a merchant ship Ruckstead had once been on.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your unannounced visit?” the patron Killdeer asked cracking a yellow smile. In the side of his cheek he chewed a fistful of tobacco, which he spat directly on the floor. The dark stains littered the house.
“Questions,” Jameson sneered. Next to her blond husband, the pair did seem particularly wolfish.
“Yes, the Hartschoffs were killed last night, as well as half of the Cronely’s herd.” Ruckstead took a swig of brandy while he waited for a response from either of the ex-pirates.
“We heard about the cattle,” was all Jorgen would say.
“Did you hear anything or anyone moving through your property two nights ago? This house lands somewhere in the middle of the crimes.” Ruckstead did his best to keep his tone purely political and not to allow any insinuations to creep through.
“You do not know the nature of your suspect? Man or beast?” Jameson inquired.
“I’m inclined to think it was an animal.” The sheriff took another sip as two pair of eyebrows arched.
“Men can be animals,” Jorgen said as he tugged at his thick beard.
Sheriff Ruckstead nearly spat his brandy on the floor. “Depends on your perspective. Can we return to my question?” Ruckstead demanded firmly.
“We did not hear anything,” Jameson answered just as confidently.
“And were the both of you here?”
Both of the Killdeers bristled. Jorgen spoke first. “The Hartschoffs were a corrupt family, but I have nothing against the cows.”
Ruckstead snorted. “Are you trying to alleviate my suspicions or enforce them?”
“He thinks we are animals,” Jameson hissed.
Jorgen raised his hand to stop any forthcoming discussion. “I do not think he means animals in that sense. What kind of creatures are you chasing?” He downed half of his glass of brandy in a single swallow.
“That’s what I am trying to discern,” the sheriff answered evenly.
“Plenty of monsters hide in the dark, but only a few come out in the full moon.” Jameson’s dark eyes flashed dangerously.
“The lunar cycles control the tides as well, the goddess has always been a friend of ours,” Jorgen began. “They say she and D’rij, the God of the Sea, had been lovers a millennia ago. We will not meddle in her affairs. Finish your drink and leave.”
***
Ruckstead swayed in the saddle as he rode back towards town. It wasn’t even noon and he was drunker than any lawmen had any right to be. He reminisced on the morning’s conversation and realized he would need to visit the wood witch one more time. He grumbled as he turned northward on the Main Road.
Chapter Seven
Artemisia glared at her guest, he reeked of booze. “Please tell me this is business related.”
Ruckstead nodded as he crossed the threshold. He sat at the table and recounted the morning.
“The Killdeers were my first guess as well,” Artemisia admitted. “But I’m beginning to think that it is a family of at least three. Someone else to help cover their movements before and after a transformation. And the Killdeers would be too obvious a choice.”
“Because of their history as pirates?” Ruckstead asked as Artemisia set down a cup of tea in front of him. It smelled bitter, but the steam immediately cleared the fog from his brain. For his comment though, Artemisia only stared sternly at him.
“If anyone with a criminal history is a suspect then I am one as well.”
“You and Mission fit the bill. Blonde and brunette,” Ruckstead joked. Though once again Artemisia was not impressed.
“Get to the point.” Artemisia placed her hands on her hips.
“Both you and the Killdeers mentioned the moon goddess, it was her that convinced them to kick me from their home.”
At this Artemisia smiled. “Physically or figuratively?”
“They did so politely.”
“A pity,” she tsked. “I assume you wish to know more about Mond, Goddess of the Moon?”
“If you would be so inclined,” Ruckstead sipped his tea and was thankful it wasn’t more alcohol. “And anything you know about D’rij of the Sea, please.”
“D’rij is a past lover of hers but his powers wane with each mile from the sea and dissipate as it crosses mountain ranges. Sometimes his power can be felt in the unseasonal breezes. Mond has a much larger dominion. She has an affinity for women and controls our cycles and is said to bless her favorite children with beauty. She also protects the blind and the poor-”
“Those typically go hand in hand,” Ruckstead interjected.
“Do not interrupt when I’m speaking,” Artemisia said with a steely stare.
“But why does she transform men into werebeasts?”
“She is a goddess. We are mere pawns for her whims.” Artemisia crossed over to her bookshelf and pulled a heavy tome from its resting place: Denizens of the Pantheon ran along its spine. The witch opened the book to the back matter before leafing through the pages. She set the book open in front of Ruckstead. Artemisia had been a devout acolyte to the goddess many years ago and could recite the Teachings of Mond by heart to the sheriff. However, she had turned her back on the pantheon long ago and decided to keep her secrets to herself.
“Do not spill tea on it,” she said as she scooted his cup several inches over.
On the top of the right-hand page in flowing script was the name Mond. The passage beneath it was repeated several times over in different languages. On the left-hand page was an artful depiction of a nearly nude woman standing on a cloud, wreathed in stars. A skirt hung from her hips, made of a sheer material, showing off her delicate legs. One hand was wrapped over her breasts as if to hide them while the other blocked the sun.
“This is the woman who is plaguing Northgate?” Ruckstead looked up at Artemisia.
“Goddess. But it’s her minions,” Artemisia corrected.
“And why are you not afraid of her when the Killdeers are?” the sheriff inquired.
“Stature alone does not make you dangerous,” Artemisia warned. “That being said, the Killdeers are dangerous.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Ruckstead admonished her.
“She created her monstrosities out
of boredom. Mond did not manufacture these beings to punish us. Her disease is here, and it delights her. If we overcome them, she will be just as delighted,” Artemisia assured him.
Ruckstead flipped the page and found more foreign texts. A few more pages later and he found D’rij, Lord of the Tides. The illustration was just as artful if not more crude. D’rij wore nothing but the surf, and his flexing muscles were covered in barnacles, urchins, and starfish. At his feet mermaids lay prostrate.
“Have you ever met these gods?” Ruckstead asked in sincerity.
Artemisia smirked, after only a few days he was turning into a believer. “I have met a few in my travels. Though I always tread carefully,” she answered. “They are fickle beings and unpredictable to their core.”
“How do we kill these werewolves?” Ruckstead flipped a few more pages.
Artemisia pulled the book aside, returned to the index and found the proper page. Once again, the heading Lycanthropes was on the right-hand side, while a stylistic rendering of man transforming to beast was on the left.
“Wolfsbane, removing its head, a stake or lance to the heart, scalping it, or exhaustion,” Artemisia read, her finger underneath the first passage which was not written in English.
“Exhaustion?” the sheriff asked.
“It’s an old text. I have other books we can peruse. In any case, the corpse must be destroyed to prevent its return,” Artemisia added.
“Its return?”
“Yes, as a fiend that consumes the blood of its enemies. Permanently in animal form.” The witch pointed to the passage in the common tongue that Sheriff Ruckstead could read.
“How do we destroy its body?”
“Fire or beheading seem to be the accepted methods,” Artemisia answered through pursed lips.
“We are going to have to cut its head off or burn it?” Ruckstead asked incredulously.
“I don’t see the problem?” Artemisia mused.
“I’m the Sheriff of Northgate. The body will have to be taken in as evidence and it will be given to the family for burial. It’s procedure,” he insisted.
“Even if we kill it in wolf form, it will revert to human form. There will be little evidence. I suggest you allow the whereabouts of the cursed creature to fade into town legend.” Artemisia met the sheriff’s furious scowl.
“When you were a deputy did you cover policy and procedures regarding werewolves section 5 article 13?” was Artemisia’s facetious reply.
“No, but that doesn’t erode the sanctity of life and the respect it deserves,” Ruckstead countered.
“Do the murderers of the Hartschoffs deserve the respect they didn’t give their victims?” The witch’s sage reply left the sheriff flabbergasted.
“I suppose we could burn the body in the woods discreetly,” the sheriff assented.
“Now you’re thinking like a criminal.” Artemisia gave him a devilish grin.
“It’s in my job description. You can’t catch criminals if you can’t think like them,” Ruckstead said gruffly. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate the comment.
“I would have expected you to show more empathy then,” Artemisia countered. “However, I have customers coming soon and you need to leave.”
For the second time in one day, Ruckstead showed himself to the door.
Chapter Eight
Mission navigated Northgate using the alleyways. Mud caked his boots, which were turned down below the knee. He had already sold the poultices and potions his cousin had given him, but still had the special mixture. Its sale would more than double the coins jingling in his pocket.
Once he was past the town limits, he cut across a field overgrown with thistle and sunflower, hopped a fence and was southbound on the Main Road. After traveling a half-mile, he headed east on Waxwing Boulevard. Only one property was serviced by this street, and its wealthy residents often requested Mission’s help with their less than legal ventures.
A sign over a wrought iron gate declared the land belonged to the Rameks. Mission didn’t bother with the lock but skirted to a birch tree with long limbs that stretched over the fence, and lightly jumped to the ground. The earth was overgrown with wild rose and raspberry bushes, but Mission had found a well-worn game trail that allowed him to pass the brambles with ease. He stepped over the carcass of a deer and ignored the incessant buzzing of a thousand black flies. He journeyed another quarter-mile before he found himself standing on a wraparound porch sheltered by a roof supported by Greek pillars. The house was in splendid condition and was the antithesis of the land it sat on. However, it mirrored the cool exterior of the Rameks which belied their wild nature. In a way, the house and the property personified its residents.
Mission raised the heavy brass knocker and let it slap against the door twice before standing back and staring at the gargoyle busts guarding the entrance to the dwelling. He heard soft footfalls from within and a moment later De’lune Ramek opened the door. She was beyond beautiful, with perfect pale skin, hair so blonde it could have been white and a graceful body. Her only imperfection was the cataract that clouded her left eye.
“Mission, good to see you,” she said coyly as she ushered him in. “I trust you found what we requested without problem?”
“As always,” the youth assured her. She was several years his senior, nearing thirty. She wasn’t yet married, and Mission was certain it was because of her marred eye.
Mission passed the foyer and found the other two Rameks waiting. The patriarch, Swain, reclined in a chair, still in a three-piece suit and polished boots. His blond hair was slicked back out of his face. His green eyes landed on Mission as a smirk broke across his face. His son, Hugh, was seated opposite at the table and was leaning his elbows across his knees. His dark hair was styled similarly to his fathers, but a few strands fell across his equally green and fierce eyes. Most of the town folk were terrified of the trio and rumor was that they had killed and eaten Apolonia Ramek, though Mission knew she had died birthing De’lune.
“What a pleasure to have you as our guest, Master Corax,” Swain said, flashing dangerously white teeth.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Mission said as humbly as he could. He tried to keep from staring at De’lune at the edge of his vision. He could hardly keep his eyes off the woman.
“Sit down, sit down.” Swain gestured at the empty chair across from him at the table. De’lune ghosted over and pulled it out before Mission could protest. He sat down, wondering if all aristocratic women acted in such a way.
“Pour this gentleman a drink before we get down to brass tacks, would you?” Swain gestured to a glass faced cabinet full of bottles, their contents varying from clear to nearly black.
“Is whiskey fine?” De’lune asked as she drifted over to the liquor cupboard. She pulled down a crystalline lowball glass as she waited for Mission’s answer.
“Um, how about rum?”
“We have that,” she answered with a coy smile and pulled a bottle off the shelf. She unstoppered the bottle with a satisfying ‘clunk’ and poured the glass half full. She set it down in front of Mission and pulled up the adjacent chair. Hugh still hadn’t said a word yet, but just stared intently at Mission. The young man felt slightly unnerved by the unbroken gaze, but he had gotten used to Hugh’s intense brooding persona.
“Do you have the witch’s brew?” Swain asked, taking a direct angle.
Mission produced it from his pocket and slid it across the table. Swain easily swept it up and passed it to Hugh.
“Perfect.” The young Ramek smiled after his first word of the meeting. Mission would be surprised if he said anything else.
“The payment?” Mission asked, and Swain proffered a pouch of coins. Mission took it, spilled its contents on the table and eyed the gold and silver pieces before scooping them back into the bag. “All right, I guess I should be going then.”
Mission finished his rum with a swig and set the glass down and stood up.
“Sit down,” Hugh said eve
nly. Mission remained standing. Hugh continued, “We will pay you double if you’ll be our spirit guide.”
Mission winced at the vulgar phrase, it wasn’t used in circles familiar with witchcraft or animism.
“The second plane is very similar to the first plane. It should be easy to find your way,” Mission said evasively.
“We aren’t going for a walk in the woods, son. We are searching for a demon,” Swain said evenly.
Mission fidgeted uncertainly. He did not enjoy astral projecting, and there were demons who had scores to settle with him. Few demons could pass from the third to second plane unbidden, but the ones who could were more than a little dangerous.
“When you put it that way… but I will need triple the pay.”
“You drive a hard bargain. You will get triple the pay if we all make it back,” Swain said, the kindness gone from his eyes. Mission was undeterred, no matter how pretty your daughter was, business was business. Swain continued, “What is the best way to combine these ingredients?”
“You could smoke it, but I recommend a tea,” Mission said. “And we need a pair of toads or frogs.”
“Not for the tea, I hope,” Hugh surprised the table by speaking again.
“No, it’s for an anchor point and will help us return. In the second plane you can still hear what’s going on near your body. The further you get the harder it is to find your body. Very easy to get lost in the seventh plane,” Mission explained.
“I can find the toads in the garden. There are usually a few hanging out beneath the eaves,” De’lune volunteered and flitted over to the door.
