VI.

In the shared dream, the packs hunted beneath a full moon. Dreshen fled before them, and the combined packs of Breeze Tower thrilled in the chase, straining to be the first to bring one of the great beasts down. Only in the dream could they be at one with the animal within. Fully bear, Moss relished the raw power of her limbs as she crashed through the forest.

When the hunt finished, they licked their lips clean and returned to human form for their nightly palaver. No one mentioned the results of the hunt, a courtesy among packs, but the werewolves strutted more than usual, a wicked shine in their eyes.

Rugner called them to order with a softly spoken word. The oldest of all the gathered lycanthropes, he strode through the ranks with purpose. His face criss-crossed with scars, one eye milky white and one eye little more than tatters, he bore the marks of a leader who had met untold challenges and had risen to overcome them. Despite his intimidating exterior, Rugner’s lips curled in a perpetual smile, a hint of his wolfish nature.

Rumor had it the werewolf had fought in Edore and Sineck’s armies. Against the Radiance. His presence spoke volumes about the lycanthropes’ desire to live in balance with the other races. And Gailinn’s persuasiveness.

The werecats described their ongoing extermination efforts. Unlike the wolves and bears, changing into their lycanthropic forms made them smaller. They spent their days eradicating rats and other vermin from the city’s sewers and alleys. At first it had been a bloodbath, but now they thrilled at hunting down their remaining, elusive prey. Most of their packs had already been reassigned to night patrols.

“More dead rats in the keep,” Pushkin said, one of the werecat alphas. Stout as a burrower, the werecat alpha was growing a thick mustache after the city’s current fashion. As he spoke, the whiskers tickled his nose and lip. His nose writhed like a hooked fish while his pack hid their chuckles the best they could. Werecats took their jobs seriously, but not much else. “Ginger’s been assigned to the council chambers on a permanent basis. No nests to be found.”

“What of the mayor’s request to turn your attention toward the roaches infesting the city?” Rugner asked.

“Bah, they’re beneath us,” Ren said with a lopsided grin. Most of the werecats snickered while the bears groaned. The wolves showed no emotion, not unusual for them, but it was obvious they hadn’t understood Ren’s joke, bad as it was.

Another werecat alpha, Ren had a wholly unremarkable face--no scars or other distinguishing features. He wore his hair swept to one side and held back with some kind of wax. Able to fit in nearly anywhere and be forgotten completely, the werecat had never been captured despite a long criminal past. He now led the werecats in Core and was present in the dream that night as an emissary of sorts.

“They’re literally beneath us,” Ren explained to the nearest pack of wolves. “But exterminating roaches is also a menial task.” Those wolves who weren’t ignoring Ren or baring their fangs still stared with blank expressions. “Menial means it doesn’t require much skill. Really, Rugner, instead of these silly hunts, mightn’t it be better to spend some of your time in the dream tutoring your wolves? I’d gladly offer my services for a minor pittance.”

“Pushkin, what say you?” Rugner asked, ignoring Ren. While difficult, it was generally the wisest option.

“Sure, I suppose we could help teach your wolves,” Pushkin said, winking at Ren who beamed. Before Rugner could interject, Pushkin continued. “Sorry, sorry. We’re collaborating with the druí.”

“That means we’re meeting with them,” Ren said to the werewolves.

“That one’s going to end up the victim in one of our investigations,” Chains whispered. Other members of their pack grunted in agreement.

With no small amount of boasting, the wolves detailed the various criminals they had apprehended based on tips from the bears. When the time came to discuss new cases, Moss expected to hear of other murders or sightings of a feral. There had been a few robberies and drunken tavern brawls but no new murders beside her own investigation.

When it was her pack’s turn to speak, Moss described the case, offering little more than those involved and the location. As the packs dispersed, dissolving from the shared dream to their own private ones, Rugner approached her and Whisper.

“We should speak in private,” he said. “Take us to the trail.”

Moss nodded. The three held hands, and she took them from the forest clearing to Liar’s Square. The place was empty in the dream, though even this late at night in the real world, Liar’s Square would still see a decent amount of traffic from late night revelers and those who sought to prey upon their inebriation. She half-expected the young rabble-rouser to be there and imagined she could still smell his madness.

“What didn’t you tell the others, pup?” Rugner asked. He unconsciously rubbed a sore muscle on his arm, realized he was doing so, and stopped.

Moss accepted the title of “pup” as a matter of course. To the aged werewolf, her decade as a lycanthrope was nothing.

“Freyn was torn apart, most of the flesh ripped from her body.” Moss described every detail of the scene, finishing with the missing sheers and flesh-seared ring.

“A lycanthrope? A first transformation, one of ours gone feral, or a newcomer to the city? We can probably discount it being one of ours.” Whisper tried to interject, but Rugner anticipated her concerns. “I’ll choose a representative from each of our packs to investigate the possibility, but there are too many eyes on us for one of ours to have done this. How far did the trail lead?”

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“Chains and I followed it to this square where it vanished.” Moss made a conscious effort not to look where the young man had stood earlier in the day. She would not soon forget the man’s stink.

“An outsider, then,” Rugner said. “One skilled at masking their scent and tracks.”

“Or something else,” Moss whispered, knowing full well the others would hear.

“A graveling? Not only do you insult the cats, who have done an admirable job clearing such filth from this city, but you also underestimate the humans. Even they would notice a graveling in their midst.” Rugner didn’t try to hide the scorn in his voice. “Pup,” he added--an insult this time and a reminder. He was an alpha among alphas and not someone you should ever back talk.

Moss decided to do just that.

“And yet, I’ll not rule out the possibility.” She met his gaze. In a hunt or on a battlefield, she would have acquiesced to Rugner without question, but she knew her craft. Grus’ training had awakened a gift inside her. She was a detective.

Rugner was used to challenges. He held her eyes, completely relaxed. Moss tried to match Rugner’s stance. His bad eye unnerved her, which he knew, the lid blinking only halfway down. Her legs threatened to wobble, and cold washed down her back, but she steadied herself with resolve.

“Hold a moment,” Whisper interjected. “Let us search for errant dreams.”

Most of their kins’ dreams were opaque orbs in a sea of light, closed to outsiders. A few were open, translucent fruit waiting to be plucked by friend or lover. All were familiar, the number of dreams matching the lycanthropes throughout the city minus a few cats who were known to be on night patrols.

Moss noticed something the others did not and led them through the field of dreams. Rugner and Whisper saw the point of darkness at the same time and were no longer content to be led. They moved alongside Moss, and the three beat their way forward as one.

Moss had never seen anything like it. Others' dreams were like sprays of mist that couldn’t be entered. They might wash over you with a general sense of the dreamer’s mood, be it fear or elation. In the dreamscape’s sea of fantasies and nightmares, the trio floated near a pulsating black mass.

“There’s our answer, pup,” Rugner said.

“No, just another mystery,” Whisper added. “What is it?”

Rugner growled, “The source of our lycanthropy. Sineck’s power and bane. The Fallen King’s madness. Unmaker.” He was visibly shaken, hackles raised. He drew back, slowly retreating from the dark mass which began to lose shape. It stretched and grew, lazy tentacles searching the space around it.

They fled as one, led by Rugner back to his shared dream. Though activity in the dream didn’t consume any actual energy, the old werewolf looked as though he had traveled a week by foot through rocky terrain and fought nightmares each step of the way. He rubbed at the sore arm again, wincing as his strong fingers kneaded the muscle.

“Gailinn reached our dreams, so it stands to reason…” Whisper began.

“That Unmaker has a similar power,” Moss finished. “Life and death. Sun and moon. All in balance.”

“All in balance,” Whisper repeated. Despite the comforting, familiar mantra, Whisper shivered at the memory of that darkness. “Rugner, you made it clear your past was off limits, but--”

“Gailinn!” Moss cried. “The victim, Freyn, resembled Gailinn. Same hair color and style, similar build.”

“Go on, pup” Rugner said. He crossed his arms across his chest as if doubtful, but his eye was wide, his good ear angled toward her.

“What do we know of Gailinn?” Moss asked. “She recruited us, struck a deal with the council, but why?”

“Money,” Rugner said. “A negotiator’s fee in exchange for a safer city.”

“She didn’t seem the type,” Whisper said.

“No, she didn’t,” Rugner agreed.

“We’ve heard news of hobs taking charge of bridges in record numbers, overseeing passage with games. Kilkinteth bards, teachers, and farmers. Grocklins assisting druí in their groves.” Moss worked her knotted thoughts aloud, unraveling the bunched rumors of the past few months. “Look at us--lycanthropes living in the city. It should be impossible, a dream fading with the dawn.”

“She’s organizing the kingdoms.” Rugner smacked fist to palm.

“Seems that way. Balance,” she said, as if that single word explained everything.

“I’ll admit,” Rugner said, “the lesser races have always lived on the outskirts with a certain level of friction with the Radiance’s greater races.” At the wolf’s understatement, Moss and Whisper shared a look and a smile. “But there’s been relative peace since Sineck with no signs that might change anytime soon.”

“Who is Gailinn, though? What is she?” Moss asked.

“If she’s a balancing force…” Whisper said.

“Unmaker seeks to stop her,” Rugner finished her sentence. “He has a new champion.”

“How did Edore and Sineck smell?” Moss asked, a sudden clarity illuminating her face. Whisper frowned, brows knit together, but Rugner weighed her worth anew with a long careful look into her eyes.

“Mad,” Rugner growled from deep in his chest.

Once more, the trio returned to Liar’s Square where Moss described her encounter with the young orator. She closed her eyes and imagined how the young man had looked. Though she had never been strong at projecting her memories into the dream, recent experience had encouraged her to sharpen the talent. Being able to remember the details of a case and project crime scenes into the dream was an invaluable talent. When she opened her eyes, the young man stood in the center of their small circle.

“I’m loath to admit it, but you bears have taken a real shine to your detective work. Especially you, Moss. Keep this one happy,” he said, speaking to Whisper. He smiled, but his eyes were serious, sharp with advice not to be ignored. “I’ll gather my pack and find the silver-haired young man. Your pack should question the others about any violence targeted at women matching Gailinn’s description.”

“There’s one more thing,” Moss said. “We talk of balance, of Gailinn balancing--what?--the entire world? The Radiance? We’re children of the moon, so we understand balance better than most. For all the good we’re capable of, there’s a gnawing hunger reaching for exposed throats, eager to bathe in blood and run wild through the vast world, beholden only to the laws of nature, of kill or be killed. If she’s stacking the scales with good intentions, purpose, a unity of races; what’s on the other side? What darkness is coming?”