I forgot that Copp’s Hill Burying Ground is the last stop on the Freedom Trail tour that runs through Boston, and that the tours are in business again. As such, there’s staff dressed in full colonial costumes with clustered groups of visitors surrounding them with phones out, recording or snapping the next viral Instagram selfie. I try not to let their presence bother me, but it’s like the Pop music from the coffee shop…a seeming insult to my nerves as I look around for Henry. I don’t see him, which I take as a mild relief since the clouds are breaking and sunshine is peeking through the gloom.
I pass an enthusiastic tour guide pointing out the graves of Increase and Cotton Mather, which lets her launch into what’s sure to be an impressive monologue about the Salem Witch Trials. I always wonder how the Order of Cerberus handled that farce, or if they got involved at all. I’ll have to ask Billy when I meet up with him later. I sigh and gruffly tell my mind to stop spinning and focus, it’s not like I expect to find Henry murdered here, I don’t need to keep distracting myself.
…I hasten my footsteps anyway.
When I get to the side of the cemetery that runs adjacent to Snow Hill Street, I hear a whistle. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a young woman standing at a gate that leads out of the burial ground and to the street. She looks innocuous, her tightly braided hair piled in a bun atop her head, vibrant makeup, a yellow crop top peeking out from the zip-up hoodie with bright designs splashed all over it, faded jeans and yellow high-top sneakers that match her top. Casual as she looks, my protective pendant vibrates. Werewolf.
“You got my attention,” I say, prompting her to get on with it.
She smiles and nods towards one of the multifamily, brick homes that line Snow Hill. I really hate the cryptic bullshit that comes with this job, clandestine meetings and needs for privacy that keep apprehension high. I’m glad I stopped by to grab weapons from the armory before leaving HQ, because I can’t say for sure that this isn’t some type of trap.
She leads me inside to a 1 bedroom, 1 bath lot that, despite its size, probably costs more than my entire house. It’s not furnished, which tells me this isn’t her place…which is for the best, as the medical table and corpse in the center of the living room is an off-putting choice for décor.
“Where’s Henry?” I ask.
“He’s safe,” the woman replies. “You were just outside; you saw how dangerous it’d be for a vampire out there. He went to rest. I’m Brianna Walker, by the way.”
I’m not completely assured about Henry’s situation, but I pretend to be for the moment. “Riley Averline,” I respond. Neither of us hold out a hand to shake the other’s. “So, this is one of yours I take it?” I ask, gesturing to the body.
“Yes,” Brianna replies, walking over to the corpse. There’s sadness in the slouch of her shoulders as she stands at the head of the young man, but she catches herself and straightens, looking neutral as I join her. “The first, actually. We only found him recently, but he’s been dead a little while now compared to the others.”
“Do you think vampires are behind this?” I ask, looking at the body.
There are puncture wounds in the neck...and in the wrists and one against the inner thigh, close enough to his genitals to surmise how this alleged vampire got the wolf to drop his guard. His skin is pale, too pale even for the dead, his body entirely exsanguinated.
“I’m not so sure,” Brianna says. I look at her, waiting for her to expand on that answer. “First glance? Yeah, looks obvious,” she continues. “But the autopsy made me think twice about the obvious. Here,” she shrugs out of her hoodie and extracts a pair of medical gloves from a box on the windowsill. With zero hesitation, Brianna hooks her fingers under one of the cuts made during the autopsy and lifts the rib cage before peeling back skin and muscle from the bone as one might peel the flesh off a fruit.
The bones of a werewolf are different from that of a human, the joints calcify and harden more with every transformation, which breaks bones in the same place every single month. The victim’s ribs look like a cause of concern at first glance for the simple fact that they look like they’ve been broken thirty times or more, but I know that’s not what I’m looking at. This, for werewolves, is normal. The strange text carved into the ribs is not. “What the hell is this?” I ask, leaning in somewhat. I think the letters are too small to make out, but on closer inspection I realize they’re not letters I recognize.
“Good question,” Brianna sighs. “But for now? The main reason I don’t think a vampire did it. Why would they go through all the trouble?”
“Can you hold that up for a bit?” I ask as I take out my phone, intent to take pictures.
Brianna looks like she wants to protest for a second, the reputation of the Order preceding me, maybe, or because she thinks it’s disrespectful to the deceased. It’s only a brief moment’s hesitation before she nods, somewhat stiffly, and averts her gaze. I loom over the body as closely as I can, taking careful pictures of the bones and the text written into them. There’s more of it carved into the flesh and I reluctantly ask Brianna to roll it back some more so I can get pictures of that too.
“That should be enough,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket as Brianna gently sets the rib cage back in place. “Let me check one more thing.”
I go to the box of gloves and grab a pair for myself, ignoring how they instantly make my hands feel clammy as I inspect the puncture wounds in the neck more closely. “Yeah, these weren’t made by vampire fangs,” I say.
“No?”
“No. For one, there’s no hickey. Uh, what I mean is, when a vampire sucks at the blood…”
“I get it,” Brianna says tersely.
“Not only that, but a vampires’ fangs curve very slightly, better to keep a grip if their victim struggles. These wounds don’t show that curve, they’re straight down and a little too deep as well.”
“Well, shit.”
“Between that and the carvings in the bones, I’d say our killer definitely isn’t a vampire.” There’s still the big question of what Sheldon saw in his vision though. Sentinels are never outright wrong; their handicap is how clearly a vision comes in or not. “Speaking of the carvings…Do you recognize the language at all?”
“No,” Brianna replies.
“Damn. Well, maybe one of ours will.”
Brianna bristles and her eyes become hard as she glares at me. “I let you in here because Henry vouched for you, not your entire Order.”
“Do you want this solved or not?” I counter.
“I don’t want Cerberus using this as another fucking excuse to impose their laws on us,” Brianna snaps.
“The ones that discourage murder? Or the ones that discourage inviting the whole world to hunt your lot with torches and pitchforks? Sorry, more like automatic weapons these days.”
We stand there on opposite sides of an autopsy table, seething and glaring at one another for what feels like an inappropriate amount of time, but is really only a second or two. I back off, because I didn’t come here to fight her and I’m still thinking about Henry. I don’t want to jeopardize his connections by being confrontational.
“Is there any chance that Castillo will work with us on this? Before things get out of hand?”
“Things are already out of hand,” Brianna points out, still sounding irate. “I know about last night. Guess we’re not losing enough wolves as it is, so yes, the Order should shoot first and attempt to contain the situation after.”
“One of our Centurions was bitten,” I argue.
“Yah, the one who shot ours,” Brianna snaps.
“After they both attacked a vampire!”
“They’re scared!”
“So, the Centurions should have just…what, stood aside while the werewolves unleashed their violent fear all over a vampire’s face?”
“They shouldn’t have escalated the situation!”
“What would you have had them do?”
“They could have at least gone for a nonfatal shot, fuck, why do I gotta spell this out for you?”
“Because neither of us were there and speculation is useless!”
We’re back to glaring at each other, only this time she’s tense, poised as if she’s going to attack me. I really don’t want to have to shoot her, I feel like that will prove her point. Besides, she’s not wrong for being upset about all of this, I just don’t want her to keep dishing it out on me. I take a deep breath that does nothing to calm me down.
“The language could be an incantation,” I say after a beat. “Does Castillo have any enemies who specialize in magic? Witch, warlock, Incantator? Fae?”
Brianna purses her full lips into a thin line, eyes narrowing at me. I half expect her to just kick me out and be done with this, but fortunately her desire to find the killer is bigger than her growing dislike for me.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Mr. Castillo hasn’t mentioned anyone like that…but then, Mr. Castillo doesn’t share a lot of personal shit with us, no matter what rank we got.”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Will you please try to find out?” I ask. “There are some of us in the Order who don’t care about the one-upmanship bullshit. We just want to solve this because people are dying, not in the hopes we can bring down the hammer. I can work with those members, so you don’t have to worry about the political side of things. Just the stopping the murderer side.”
Brianna looks anything but convinced, but at least she doesn’t call me a liar. I can limit who I tell in the Order, there are a fair number of Senior members, in all fields, who clamor for more control over the city. All for the good of the mundane citizens, they say. I think they’re just on a power trip, and that we’re all fortunate that Carver doesn’t ever give in to their radical ideas. “I’ll try to find out,” she says.
“Thank you,” I reply. “I, uh…can update you if I get a translation, if you want.”
She smirks, but there’s still hostility to it. “You have a strange way to ask for a girl’s number.”
“I like to make the worst impression possible, that way there’s plenty of room for me to grow.”
“Dumbass,” she snorts, at least her scorn is touched with genuine amusement. She tugs off the medical gloves that she’s been too angry to even notice were still on up to this point, and goes to the kitchen to wash her hands. I’m still standing there wondering if that was a yes or if she’s giving me the silent signal to get the hell out of here.
“Hand over the phone,” she says when she returns to the living room, hand outstretched. I drop my mobile into her palm and she taps in her information. “Do not call me for anything but this case.”
“You’re in luck, I don’t like calling people in general, so you won’t get my latest take on Reality TV or anything.”
“Good. Now get out.”
I step outside to sunshine and traffic. Since my phone is still in hand, I call Henry but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer. That doesn’t mean I don’t worry, however, and I won’t feel better about it until I get in touch with him. I can’t run around Boston looking for him though, so all that I can do at this point is hurry to Southie.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It takes me about an hour to get to the City Point neighborhood in South Boston. I’m still thinking about the letters carved into flesh and bone, what the significance is and why they were there in the first place. It’s something that feels more like an answer, I just don’t have the right question yet.
I can smell the ocean here, the briny scent preceding the more pungent odor of low tide is carried with the cold breeze coming in from the bay. There’s also the sound of seagulls that pepper the city noise; car horns, cawing, the shuffle of everyday life. Southie gets a bad rap in all the movies, but I’ve never experienced scowling Irish mobsters waiting to unleash a flurry of headshots on any who dare walk its streets. Maybe I don’t worry about it because I know there’s a lot more dangerous things in the world.
Actually, it’s the dark van parked on 8th Street that looks like it was plucked from a Crime drama. I can’t decide if it’s better there’s nothing printed on the sides of it, or if they should have gone all out and advertised flowers. I text Billy as I approach the vehicle, and the back door opens before I reach it and I step in without bothering to see if anyone notices. The more straightforward you move in the city, the better chance no one will really pay attention. Besides, the only people I care about seeing me are the werewolves and all looks quiet in the condo across the street.
“Anything?” I ask before Chiaki can ask where I’ve been.
“Nothing so far,” she replies, although I can tell she’s just saving those questions for later.
“Spending the day in a van is exactly what I hoped for when I woke up this morning,” I sigh. There’s high end equipment, both mundane and enchanted. All the better to see you with, dear, I think as I inspect the binoculars charmed to see through walls. There are also a few variants of long-range microphones for audio, and I know the vehicle is enchanted, masking our presence from nearby werewolves. It doesn’t stop the van looking suspicious as hell idling in the street though. “Listening to a bunch of wolves is the cherry on top of that wish though.”
“Better wolves than snoring vampires,” Billy said. “Did you have enough coffee, kid? Your grumpy sass levels are pretty high.”
“Fuck off, Billy.”
“That’s a no.”
“Could you both focus, please?” Chiaki asks, frowning at us as she adjusts the oversized headphones around her ears.
“We’ll let you listen in peace, I need to talk to you privately anyway, Billy,” I reply, gesturing for him to step out of the van.
Chiaki looks more annoyed at this, and I suppose she must think I’m slacking off between getting here late and immediately abandoning the job at hand. I do hate the surveillance side of things, it makes me antsy, but this time I’m not only dodging it. I want to see if Billy knows anything about the writing on the werewolf bones. So, we shut Chiaki in the van, leaning against the side of the vehicle not facing the werewolf condo. Billy pulls out a cigarette, then offers me the pack. I slip one out even though I tried to convince myself I quit a month ago.
“Any luck?” Billy asks after we both take a couple puffs.
“I’d say,” I take my phone out and show him the photos. “You recognize that language?”
“Ooof, you know language isn’t my strong suit, kid.”
“Fair enough, what do you make of this as a whole then?”
Billy takes time to flip through the pictures and really look at them. His cigarette dangles from weathered lips, curly hair accentuated with white caught in the breeze while his pale eyes dart about the screen as they take in every detail available. He scrunches his face somewhat, making some of the lines stand out more against his ruddy complexion and hands the mobile back to me.
“The vampires are being set up,” he sighs.
“You think it has something to do with magic too?”
“Oh yeah. A spell, or ritual, something…”
“I just wish I knew what it fucking said,” I hear the exasperation tighten my voice. There are millions of spells out there, some that we have no idea about, a lot that have been lost to history, more being created by clever mages every day. It’s impossible to keep track of them all, more so to know what every single one of them entails and does. If we did know, however, it would narrow down our search parameters to something manageable.
The van door opens and I jam my phone back into my pocket. Chiaki joins us, and crosses her arms as she looks at us. I’m reminded of my mother suddenly, waiting for us to confess our crimes, although my brothers and I never did. I say nothing now either, I only raise a brow and wait for her to break and tell us why she came out here.
“I can hear you,” she says. “What’s all this about a spell?”
I feel like an idiot, thinking that stepping outside a van outfitted with equipment specifically for eavesdropping is enough of a cover. I know I should share it with Chiaki, she’s a good one even if she’s lacking humor. But I did tell Brianna I wasn’t going to let the whole Order in on it, and it may complicate things. Chiaki knows about my lingering relationship with Henry, she doesn’t approve of it, and I’m sure she won’t approve of my dealings with Brianna. I hate that there’s more to my hesitation than that though. I hate that I’m desperate enough to get back on the Night Shift, where I can make a real difference, that I want to solve this with as little help as possible. I’m better than Day Shift, I know that, I just need Carver to get with the program. Ultimately, I can’t put that above the very real threat to the werewolves in Boston, and thus the people of Boston too when Castillo decides he’s had enough.
I tell her about my clandestine meeting with Brianna, courtesy of Henry. Her small mouth purses and her eyes narrow, but if she’s planning on yelling at me about it she must be saving that for later too. Chiaki is going to have enough material to chastise me for hours at this point. And she will too. I’m dreading it already.
“Let me see,” she says coldly, waiting for the phone.
I give it to her and she, like Billy, studies the photos for a while without saying anything. She cants her head, and I realize there’s a dawning recognition in her gaze that fills me with hope.
“Do you know what it says?” I ask eagerly.
“No,” she replies and my hope deflates like a balloon that had its air let out. “It’s not a known language, but it is…based on one. I studied linguistics before I joined the Order, dead languages, specifically. This looks like ancient Sumerian. With Coptic influences.”
“But it…isn’t either of those?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” Chiaki confirms.
“Maybe it’s some asshole making up a language to throw us off. Shit, a dear diary situation, but with no codex hidden under a pillow.”
“Speaking from experience, Billy?” I ask.
“I had lots of secrets, kid,” Billy says in turn.
“The Order needs to know about this,” Chiaki cut in before we could really start our usual tangent.
“I told Brianna I wouldn’t invite the entire Order in on this,” I remind her.
“That’s well and good,” she sounds terse. I’m doing terribly with women today. “Except if we keep this to ourselves and more wolves are killed that will be worse than our analysts being let in on a very important aspect of the case.”
I knew including her was going to end this way, and I wish I could say that it’s an unnecessary flex, but I know she’s right. We must tell them and if Brianna gets pissed because we solve the case faster that sounds like her problem. “All right,” I agree. “I’ll send the pictures to our analysts, hopefully they’ll make some headway by the time we get back to headquarters.”
“We can’t abandon our task here,” Chiaki points out.
I frown and glance at Billy, hoping he’ll override that immediately so we can follow through on the weird runes. He shrugs balefully and gestures back to the van. “We have to wait for the analysts to get through it anyway,” he says.
“Fine,” I grumble.
We return to the van and Chiaki very deliberately hands me a pair of headphones. I smile tightly at her as I take them and clap them over my ears. I can immediately hear the sounds from the strike force’s den, and it’s nothing interesting. The television is on, one of the wolves in there is gassy, and what conversation they do have is about whatever sport they’re watching. Sometimes, the supernatural can be terribly mundane.
We’re in there getting nothing useful for about 30 minutes when there’s a sudden shift from the condo.
“Hurry up!” one of the wolf’s voice crackles to life.
“We can’t lose this chance!” another exclaims.
I hear them getting up and running to some part of the condo, then the loud shriek of a heavy door being moved and what sounds like their heavy steps heading down. “Are they going into the sewer?” I ask.
“Come on,” Billy says, leading the way out of the van. I’m surprised at his tenacity, he’s usually more of a sloth type.
Chiaki and I follow him though, and I whistle when he nonchalantly breaks into the strike team’s condo. Why he’s in such a hurry, I’m not sure, at least not until we get to the back bedroom. Billy dashes forward to seize the heavy door trying to swing back into place. It’s disguised to look like a sliding closet door, and it takes a close look to realize the wooden slates are covering the thick door rather than a closet opening.
“Stop staring and help me out!”
I also take hold of the door, straining immediately against its weight. “What the fuck is this made out of?”
“Doesn’t matter, let’s just get through it so we don’t lose the wolves,” Billy says. “Ms Ito? If you would be so kind as to hurry the fuck up?”
Chiaki still throws shade at the Sentinel, but she does as she’s asked and steps into the narrow tunnel. She heads down a few rickety steps to give me room to join her, then Billy who lets the door slam behind him.
“Why didn’t you catch it?” I ask.
“Why didn’t you?” he pants, bent over his knees as he catches his breath. “Oh, I know why I didn’t…it would tip our furry friends off that something was up.” He straightens and quickly flinches. “Shit, I think I got a hernia from doing all that.”
“You want to go sit in the van?”
“Yes, give me a minute and I’ll just get this thing open again. No problem-o, kid.”
“How many times must I ask you both to focus?” Chiaki whisper-shouts.
“The world may never know,” I reply. I avoid her scorching expression and clear my throat. “Well, let’s hope that whatever this is and wherever the strike force went, it will help us out with this mission.”
Billy nods. “Quietly now, Centurions. We have some wolves to catch up with.”