THREE

It was early morning. Dawn had just broken out across the sky when Wes Williams, caretaker of buildings 42, 44 and 46 of Primrose Lane, dragged his stepladder out from the utility closet and across the foyer of building number 42. There was a broken light fixture in the vestibule that needed replacing. The job required him to prop open the outer door with the ladder, blocking access to the front entrance. Because of this, he wanted to get it done and the ladder removed before his many tenants started leaving for work.

The early hour didn’t faze Wes in the slightest. He’d already been up since five. He was essentially retired, and having lost his wife years earlier, lived alone. He’d taken the caretaker position because it had not only included an apartment, but a modest income as well. That, along with his pension, allowed him to live out his so-called twilight days in reasonable comfort.

The position itself had been a decidedly smart move as Wes, a self-proclaimed jack-of-all-trades, had enough know-how to deal with most of the problems his tenants complained of. If an issue arose that he couldn’t handle himself, he simply called in an expert. Between the three buildings, the work was steady enough to keep him busy, without becoming overwhelming.

It so happened that he was atop of the ladder, when a large dog limped gingerly through the open door, under his ladder and into the foyer, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints behind it. Wes hesitated, transfixed, light fixture in hand, to curiously watch the animal as it made its way over to the bank of elevators. There it paused, before raising itself up on its hind legs and hitting the call button with the tip of its nose. The dog then flopped down and patiently waited for the elevator to arrive. When it did, it once more limped gingerly inside before disappearing from view. A moment later, the doors slid closed.

Wes frowned and attempted to wrap his mind around what he had just witnessed. It was true that he’d seen a lot of strange visitors to the apartment during his time as its caretaker, and by strange, he meant outright bizarre. This city had more than its fair share of freaks and oddities, yet he had to admit that in all this time, he had never witnessed a dog come calling on someone.

Curiosity getting the best of him, he lowered himself from the ladder and set the light fixture aside. The chore at hand was, for the moment at least, forgotten, as he followed the path of bloody prints to the elevator bay and looked up at the numbers displayed above it. The lift the dog took had stopped at the sixth floor.

Wes hit the call button himself deciding that curiosity notwithstanding, it was still very much his duty to check things out. He reached the top floor and once again followed the bloody trail of prints down the hall and around the corner to where the dog had finally stopped—no, collapsed was a much better word for it—outside of apartment 603.

He approached the dog carefully. It was one of those arctic snow dogs, large, with a dense silver-coloured coat and white underside. Its front leg, the one it had been favouring was now almost completely saturated with blood. Somewhere within its thick coat was a wound deep enough to cause such blood flow. Bloody smears on the door marked where the dog had apparently tried to scratch for entry before succumbing to its injury.

Apartment 603 belonged to a single tenant, a favored one in fact, for in the four years he had been working here, he had never once had an issue with him. He was a quiet gentleman, tall and lean with dark hair and green eyes. He was handsome, almost to the point of being pretty, and if it weren’t for the number of female callers that came looking for him, Wes might have questioned his apparent sexuality.

Wes raised his fist but hesitated before knocking. The problem that faced Wes was that he could not recall having seen this tenant with a dog before. He hated to disturb the man, whom he knew worked nights, yet without assistance he realized too that it was very probable that the animal would die.

***

Damon was jarred from his slumber, by an insistent banging sound. It had taken him a moment to realize that it was not an alcohol induced throbbing within his own head, but an outside influence all together; one that was pounding relentlessly on his apartment door. A glance at the illuminated clock in his otherwise darkened bedroom told him that he had only been asleep for a few short hours. The knocking however did not seem to be going away on its own. Cursing quietly, he flipped back the covers and still feeling groggy, finally succeeded in pulling himself from his bed, before swinging his bedroom door open.

The early morning light assaulted him with full force, and he found himself squinting painfully against it. He had forgotten to close the heavy drapery that hung along his balcony door and the brightness was excruciating to the point of blinding. He staggered towards the kitchen and down the shallow steps to his sunken living room, where he crossed it quickly before heaving the thick curtains closed. The darkness that enveloped the room brought an instant relief to his battered senses. He could now make out much more than the blurred shapes of a moment before.

He crossed back through the living room and up the steps that led to his front door, stopping momentarily to peek through the eye glass before sliding the chain bolt free and swinging the door open.

***

Wes Williams had about decided that the tenant of 603 could not possibly have been home, when he finally heard the chain rattle from within, and the door opened. His tenant stood sleepy and dishevelled before him; his usually styled hair was standing up on end and he had a night’s worth of stubble upon his chin as he squinted into the light from the hall. He was wearing a simple white tee shirt and pair of pale blue boxer shorts and there was no doubt in Wes’s mind that he had just crawled out of bed.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Williams apologized, “but is this your dog?”

Damon stared at Williams, clearly not comprehending until the caretaker motioned urgently towards the floor.

“Dog?” Damon voiced, as he followed the gesture downwards to see that a silver dog had collapsed on his threshold. A small pool of blood was forming beneath the animal.

“Oh hell,” Damon swore before dropping to his knees and leaning over the canine.

Wes too dropped to his knees, intent on helping as his tenant struggled to pull the injured animal into his arms. He’d had a dog as a child and he found that the older he got, the more he reminisced over the sweeter times. He’d always wanted to get another, but by then he had met and married Gloria, and she had the allergies.

“Don’t touch him,” Damon snapped.

Wes Williams instinctively backed off. There was a look in his tenant’s eyes, a frightening darkness that he had never witnessed before.

Almost immediately, his tenant regained his composure, his look softening. “I’m sorry Wes—I didn’t mean to startle you.” He hoisted himself to a standing position, the dog cradled carefully in his strong arms. Blood from the animal was now smeared across his shirt and shorts.

“S’alright,” Wes answered as he straightened himself up. “I understand you’re upset. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t think so,” Damon replied before backing into his apartment and closing the door behind him with his foot.

Damon carried the wolf down the steps to his living room where he placed him, on his black leather sofa. He then rushed up the other set of steps to his kitchen, where he began searching the lower cupboards for the Tupperware that contained his assortment of medical supplies. Finding it, he set it upon the island that served not only as his meagre table, but more importantly as a divider for the drop between his kitchen and living room. From within the island itself, he produced a medium-sized metal bowl, the kind one might beat a cake in, which he then filled with hot water from the tap. He set the bowl upon the Tupperware before disappearing down the hall, past his bedroom to the small closet outside his bathroom door. He opened the closet and taking out several neatly folded hand towels, returned to the kitchen to stack those too upon the Tupperware. He was gathering it all up when a glance to the sofa below, sent him once more down the hall, where he returned this time with a warm, oversized blanket.

Items in hand, he went back down to the living room. He set the towels and Tupperware on the coffee table, before shaking the blanket open and carefully covering the naked man who now lay unconscious on the sofa where the wolf had once been.

They had been lucky. Had Nick reverted to his human form any sooner, Damon would have been forced to silence caretaker Williams. There was simply no means by which something like that could have been explained away. Werewolves; along with most things that went bump in the night, simply didn’t exist in Mr. Williams’ world.

Damon sat down next to Nick and brushed his dark hair away from his face as he tried to rouse him. His forehead felt clammy and cool to the touch. This wasn’t good for a guy that usually ran hot. “Hey, kiddo.” He called softly, attempting to rouse him. “I’m gonna need you to wake up now, okay?” When there was no response he tried again, louder this time and gently slapped his cheek. “Nikolaus?” He slapped him again. “Nick?” He sighed. “Okay Niko. You rest for a bit. I got this.”

He had never seen Nick so battered or torn. His neck, back and shoulders were covered with scratches. Dark bruises ran along his left side and Damon could see at least four separate bite marks. His left shoulder was especially torn. He took one of the hand towels and folding it into a square, held it there, applying pressure. “Damn, boy.” Damon chided. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

It was unlikely that a single wolf could have caused this much damage. It was like the time he’d patched Nick up after his first sexual encounter with a pure-blooded she-wolf. Wolven lovemaking he’d discovered could be as painful for the participants as it was pleasurable. Of course, she’d been merely testing his mettle, his worthiness to be her mate. Whatever had done this had been trying to kill him.

He grabbed a second towel, dunked it in the hot water, and set about cleaning his wounds. With the blood mopped up, he already looked a lot better. Most of the scratches were superficial, and werewolves were super fast healers. He could leave them be. The bites however… Digging through the Tupperware, he found some gauze pads but the bottle of peroxide—some dumb-ass had put it away empty. He sighed. It looked like they were going old school. He went to the liquor cabinet (aka the cupboard over the fridge) to grab a bottle. “You had better appreciate this,” he told Nick. “This is some expensive shit.” He took a swig for himself, before sterilizing the bite marks. There was a nasty one low on his side that was still weeping blood and he took the time to bandage that.

Having cleaned him up as best he could, Damon attempted a quick peek at the wound beneath the towel. There was a deep bite mark, where something had latched on tight and tore a good piece of him open—he’d likely need stitches. Below the shoulder bite, beneath his collarbone, was a second deeper wound which Damon soon realized had nothing to do with either tooth or claw.

He swore as he realized what the source of the wound might be. Gritting his teeth, he placed a reluctant finger into the hole, forcing it down gently into the warm space until his fingertip touched a hard metal surface. The arrowhead was buried deep.

He quickly withdrew his finger and reached into the Tupperware, digging through it until he came up with a knife and a pair of long-nosed hemostats. Forcing his finger back down, he tried to determine the angle and how the flared barbs were sitting. The problem with removing an arrowhead was its general shape—narrow going in, wider out. In order to remove it with the least amount of damage, he had to widen the hole with an additional incision before trying to take it out. Using his finger as a guide, Damon carefully slipped the blade down alongside it, before cutting a wider path. It was probably merciful luck that Nick remained unconscious through the whole ordeal, for a surgeon, he was not.

With the incision made; Damon reached for the hemostats. He parted the blades carefully, before inserting them into the wound and with as much skill as he could muster, attempted to clamp hold of the metal buried deep within. It was only after considerable cursing and several failed attempts, that he was finally able to clamp down on the blood covered tip. He removed it carefully, fearful that it might slip loose, understanding all the while that even with the incision, it had undoubtedly entered with far less damage than it was now exiting.

He finally pulled the piece of metal free from Nick and was able to examine it. It was a broad-head arrow, hand cast, and this one had lodged itself deep inside its target, stopping only when it reached bone.

Damon fingered the arrow tip tentatively and felt a familiar burning sensation against his fingertips. Silver. While an obvious irritant to him, silver was downright deadly to Nick. It would have immediately sapped his strength, greatly weakening him. If he hadn’t removed the deadly bit of metal, it would have eventually killed him. He thought it odd that the shaft had come so cleanly free of the arrowhead. It hadn’t snapped or been broken off. This led him to believe that it was by design. Any attempt by Nick to remove the arrow, would have caused it to detach from its shaft leaving the crippling silver buried within. Flipping the arrowhead, he could see that it was hollowed out. So that was the reason it hadn’t penetrated bone… He frowned at the piece of silver. It didn’t make sense. Wouldn’t a solid tip have caused more damage? Unless…

Placing a finger under the open hole, he tipped the arrowhead upside down. A single drop of colourless liquid dripped free. He rubbed it between his fingers before smelling it and tentatively touching it to his tongue. Spitting, his worst fears were confirmed. His fingertips were now numb, as was his tongue. He only knew of one poison to work that way. Wolfsbane. Damon’s stomach did a sickening flip-flop as he realized that things had just gone from bad, to worse in a very short moment.

Setting the arrowhead aside, he hurried to his bedroom for his cell phone, where it was charging peacefully on his bedside table. Snatching it up, he flipped through his contacts as he returned to his living room, dialling when he found the correct one.

“Please, please, please pick up.” He begged as he listened to it ring. After a long moment it went to voice mail.

“Bloody Hell,” Damon cursed as he threw the cell phone into the matching armchair. Panicking he brought his hands to his head, running his fingers through his hair as he contemplated what he should do next. Dilution—antiseptic—should he flush the wound? Or was the heavy bleeding enough? Behind him, his cellphone suddenly came to life. He grabbed the phone, answering it as he unscrewed the bottle and gingerly poured some of the contents into the wound on Nick’s shoulder.

“Ryan?” Damon hardly recognized his own voice—was shocked by the worry and desperation he heard. “I need you.”

***

“I’ll be right there.”

Ryan, sitting on the edge of his bed, sheet draped loosely across his lap, dropped his phone onto the nightstand. In the bed behind him, Teresa watched him silently.

They had only recently drifted off to sleep, after a bout of exceptionally enjoyable lovemaking, when Ryan’s cellphone had gone off. It had jarred them awake, and as Ryan reached for it in the dark, he managed to knock it instead to the floor, where it of course, skidded neatly under the bed. Teresa had watched—with much admiration—as her naked lover attempted to retrieve it. She’d let her eyes roam slowly over his large muscular form; his powerful chest, muscled mid-section, and strong sexy back. As he retrieved the phone and took his place once more on the edge of the bed, she’d crept up behind him, letting her arms encircle him, pressing her bare breasts against his back as she stroked his chest. She nibbled at his neck seductively while he checked his caller history.

As his back stiffened within her embrace, and he continued to ignore her advances, she realized that something must be wrong. Thoughts of jumping him slowly faded, and she relinquished her hold on him, settling back into the bed instead. She listened as he quickly called whomever back, but it seemed the call was over before it’d begun.

“It’s Damon. Something’s happened. I gotta go.” Even as he spoke, he was already getting dressed.

“Do you want me to come with?” She’d asked with concern.

Ryan turned, and smiling, looked at her for the first time. “Nah, babe. You get some beauty rest. I’ll be home before you know it.” He leaned in and kissed her tenderly, letting his lips linger longingly against hers. “And don’t think I didn’t know what you were up to just now.” He whispered, as he finally pulled away. It pained him to leave her like this.

***

Minutes later, Ryan ascended to the balcony of apartment 603 at 42 Primrose Lane. He rapped on the glass of the balcony door before coming inside. As he crossed the threshold, he was immediately hit by the aroma of blood with slight undertones of wet dog. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed crossing the room to the body which lay on the sofa. “Is that Niko?”

Damon nodded, and moved aside so he could take his spot beside Nick. The boy was a mess. He looked like he’d come out on the loosing end of a dog fight. He pulled up the soiled towel, quickly glancing at Nick’s damaged shoulder, before moving on to his face. Nick’s complexion was ghostly white—even for a white boy. “Do you have a penlight?” he inquired as Damon turned once more to the Tupperware. He began checking for pupil dilation, flashing the light across first his left, and then right eye. He then laid his hand against Nick’s forehead, checking his temperature. He didn’t like what he was witnessing; Nick’s pupils were unresponsive; his core temperature was low, and his breathing was shallow. “How long has he been like this?” Ryan asked. Taking up Nick’s wrist, he checked his pulse.

“Twenty minutes or so, maybe thirty. I didn’t check the time.”

“Has he been conscious at all?”

Damon shook his head. “My custodian found him. He’d collapsed outside my door.”

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“We’re lucky he didn’t just call an ambulance.”

“He wasn’t human at the time.”

Ryan nodded his understanding. Something was nagging in the back of his mind as he returned once more to the wound in the shoulder. Wolven were excellent healers. There were several deep scratches along his shoulders and upper arms. After thirty minutes, small wounds such as this would have closed by now. “Strange. He should have started healing by now.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Damon took a seat on the coffee table before passing him the arrow tip. “I pulled this from him.”

Ryan paused to inspect the bit of bloody metal. He fingered the tip which smoked and burned hot at his touch. “This is silver. Looks custom made.” A heavy realization was setting in. “Shit. He’s tangled with a hunter.”

“That’s not the worst of it—”

“Poisoned arrow?” Ryan interrupted, hazarding a guess. It wasn’t hard to piece together this puzzle; they’d played this game before. Hunter plus silver arrow equals werewolf hunter and if you were foolish enough to be hunting werewolves; you stacked the deck in your favor. “Wolfsbane?” It would explain why the boy hadn’t healed.

“It wasn’t just dipped in poison.” Damon’s voice was low and bleak. “It’s hollowed out. The arrowhead was full of it. Just how much do you think it’d take before—”

“Not enough,” he silenced him. “Not for our boy.” He could see where this was heading. Damon was trying to remain stoic, but the worry in his voice was unmistakable. He needed to distract him from this frame of mind—give him hope. Ryan began carefully inspecting the wound in the shoulder. “I think we may have lucked out.” He said a moment later. “As far as I can tell, no major arteries have been damaged. It looks like we’re just dealing with tissue damage and once we neutralize the poison, his natural healing abilities should take over.” He glanced over at Damon who looked somewhat relieved. “Don’t worry mate—in no time at all, your boy will be back to his sweet annoying self. All we have to do now is stitch up his shoulder.” Even with Nick’s overclocked healing ability, he thought the shoulder might need some additional help.

On the table beside Damon, Ryan spied the bottle. “Whiskey,” he called out.

Damon passed him the bottle. “I already flushed out the wound.” He informed him.

“Nah. This is for me.”

Damon watched him take a healthy draught from the bottle. “What can I do?”

Ryan set the bottle aside, absently wiping his face on his shirt sleeve, before meticulously rolling them up. It’d been a long while since he’d had to deal with something like this—most of the people he knew were fast healers. There was no way he wanted an overly anxious Damon standing over him while he blundered his way through suturing Nick’s torn body.

“You are going shopping.”

“Shopping?” Damon looked positively unnerved by the thought.

“Yup. We’re going to need some supplies if we’re to neutralize this poison—and the things I require can’t be found at your local Big-mart.”

***

The White Willow was a quaint two-story, white-bricked storefront nestled in among a line of other small mom and pop shops on a quiet tree-lined street. There was a textiles and draperies shop: Tailor Maid; a coffee and bakery called Sweet Sips; a bookstore entitled A Novel Idea; and an appliance repair shop known simply as Johnson’s Electric.

At this early hour, the street was quiet, with only the coffee house appearing to be open. Damon stopped in front of the white bricked building to examine it further. Up close he could see that trails of green ivy had been hand stencilled on the painted brick. It grew up the side of the building, and along the brickwork over the entrance way, where it finally crept down again on the other side. Large glass windows adorned each side of its centrally placed door. Painted on the left-hand window were the words: The White Willow; Apothecary; supplies and services. A list of such supplies and services followed bullet-style on the right window and included: botanicals, incense, sundries, oils, potions and powders, services. Stencilled on the glass of the door itself, in a small simple script were the hours. Open: 8am – 8pm. Closed Sundays.

Damon checked his phone. It was still twenty minutes to open. Nevertheless, he reached for the door-latch just to be sure. It held fast, but as he tried to open it, the old door rattled in her threshold and Damon spied a hint of movement from within. Peering against the glass, he was now sure of a shadowy figure deep within the shop. He rapped sharply on the glass and was soon rewarded by the shopkeeper; a bearded, middle-aged man dressed in tweed slacks and a button-down shirt, worn under a heavy cable-knit cardigan. He opened the door without pause, a little bell announcing his arrival, and proceeded to welcome Damon inside.

“Morning to you, up with the dawn I see. I’ve yet to get the lights, but you’re welcome to come inside.”

Damon followed him in while the shop-keep disappeared into the back. The store was immediately welcoming, feeling somehow warm and earthy and smelt heavily of spice and floral and incense. The floors were dark hardwood; which were marked by age, and yet gleamed with care as the lights overhead suddenly turned on. A long-woven rug that ran lengthwise down the center of the shop was almost threadbare in places. To the far right, shelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling. The bottom most shelves held deep baskets that flipped on their sides, were home to an assortment of herbs, roots, tubers or other dried floral, while glass jars of various shapes and sizes dominated the shelves above. Their contents appeared to hold everything from the mundanely innocent; honeycomb, spices, and beeswax, to the intricately odd; goat gallstones, coffin nails and crossroad dirt.

The middle of the room held an odd assortment of antique furniture; tables, display cabinets and desks. There were tables with candles of all shapes, colours, and sizes, some scented or scribed and for the D.I.Y. inclined, candle-making supplies: molds, wicks, waxes, and additives. There were multi-tiered displays of botanical and essential oils, sold in tiny cork topped bottles. Some Damon immediately recognized: like lavender, rosemary, sandalwood and sage. Others he was unfamiliar with, like angelica root, and oakmoss.

There were displays of crystals and semi-precious stones; petrified wood; and small animal skulls, teeth and bones. There were tools for divination: tarot cards, crystal balls, runes and scrying mirrors and bowls. Another table held braids of sweet grass for smudging, and incense: in cones or sticks as well as a selection of ornamental burners. It seemed that for the spiritually inclined, the White Willow was a virtual cornucopia of the mystic and divine.

Towards the back of the shop was a selection of books, journals and writing implements. A heavy worktable sat square in the middle of the floor. On the far wall, a doorway led to a backroom. It was from there, behind a beaded curtain that the shop keeper soon emerged. He proceeded to the sales counter which ran along the left-hand side of the room. Once situated, he regarded Damon as if for the first time. Thin-framed spectacles adorned his face, behind which watery blue eyes peered. His hair was a reddish-brown in colour and was just starting to thin at the temples. His beard too, kept neatly trimmed was the same reddish colour as his hair and only just beginning to show the slightest hint of grey. “Is there anything I can help you with?” he inquired with a faint smile.

Damon reached into his pocket and came out with the crumpled bit of paper Ryan had given him. “I have a list.” He said meekly, realizing that he would never find the ingredients needed in a timely enough fashion amongst the multitude of assorted sundries.

“From this, it looks like someone’s been poisoned.” The shopkeeper responded gravely after only a quick glance at the paper. He immediately began searching the shelves behind him, unlocking the cabinet, and bringing down heavy glass jars filled with powders and other dried foliage.

His lack of astonishment worried Damon. “Do you sell poisons here?”

“I sell all manner of herb and root here, some of which can be poisonous.” He replied absentmindedly as he began weighing a greyish-white powder on an old-fashioned scale before dispersing it into a tiny woven sack. He began weighing and wrapping other herbs, mixing some together before placing these on parchment and expertly folding them into little envelopes.

“Do you sell wolfsbane?”

“Ah, wolfsbane is it? Aconite—she is one of the deadliest poisons.”

“Aconite?” Damon repeated.

“It has known many names over the years: Blue Rocket, King’s Coach, Mourning Bride. But of all her monikers she is best known as Aconite, Monkshood or Wolfsbane.”

“So, if you are familiar with the poison, then are you familiar with the antidote as well?”

The shop-keep paused from his work to glance at him sombrely. “I am very sorry to say—but there is no antidote for aconite.”

***

Nathan, wearing yesterday’s clothes, and a pair of dark sunglasses; stood looking up the set of wide concrete steps that lay before him. Thirty minutes earlier, he’d received an urgent phone call from Ryan with two sets of instructions. The first had been easy: head up to Ryan and Teresa’s brownstone and get the small chest from the back of the bedroom closet. It had been simple enough, because he just so happened to live in the basement apartment beneath the very same brownstone.

The second set of instructions had led him here.

Unadulterated Acquisitions was a high-end antiques and collectables establishment, that had the reputation of being more of a museum than shop; as much of its merchandise was of the sort that only those with the largest of bankrolls could ever hope to afford. The owner and curator had the expertise and discretion required to search out and obtain for her very select clientele, the finest and rarest of antiquities. It was rumoured there wasn’t anything she couldn’t acquire; provided you had the funds of course, or something of equal value in which to trade.

Nathan ascended the steps, pausing a moment before the double wide doors. The entire storefront was made of glass, so that passers-by could easily see her wares. The ground floor level was arranged like a high-end showroom. The floors were white marble and throughout the open space, majestic roman pillars reached up towards the ceiling above, where multiple banks of skylights, let natural light stream down to highlight the artifacts below. Halfway into the room, an elegantly curved staircase ran up from both the left and right sides of the room to the loft above. Looking down upon the stairway, one would be able to see that the fixture of stairs was shaped like a beautiful crescent moon.

The display cases themselves, many with their own security alarms, were made of tempered glass, with much of their contents laid out on small pillows in rich hues of scarlet or purple. Much of the jewellery was especially displayed this way. Sculptures, busts and other such works of art sat throughout the lower level on their own display stands, while rare oil-paintings and tapestries were exhibited on the walls.

The loft above, Nathan knew, contained a private library of collectable maps, documents and tomes; many of them hundreds of years old. It also served as an area to showcase her private collection of medieval and historical weapons.

However, it wasn’t any book, trinket or collectable that he’d been sent to obtain today—but the curator herself: Penelope Vaughn. Nathan could see her now, standing behind the front desk, a trim, petite, and lovely looking woman. She had a heart-shaped face (which was only just beginning to show her age), a flawless complexion and beautiful hazel-brown eyes. Her hair, a rich auburn brown, cascaded down her back in long flowing waves. She was wearing an elegant skirt-suit, black with a pink silk blouse beneath, and a matching pair of pink closed-toe, high-heel shoes.

Tentatively, Nathan rapped gently upon the glass. It was still early, and he sincerely doubted that she was open for business. Some days, he knew she was open by appointment only—this allowed her the discretion she needed when dealing with her more unique clientele. Nathan watched as Penelope looked up towards him, a curious look upon her face. Her expression soon changed from one of curiosity to that of recollection and she waved to him with a welcoming smile. Moments later, she was unlocking the door and escorting him in.

“Good morning, Nathan,” she said genuinely as she leaned in to give him a brief hug and a quick peck on the cheek. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Good, I guess... at least as well as can be expected, I suppose.”

“What can I do for you today? Can I offer you some tea? Or do you perhaps have something that you think might pique my interest?” She was glancing knowingly at the little chest he was holding under one arm.

“Oh, this?” Nathan looked at the small box he was holding. “No, I’m not even sure what this is. I was asked to bring it to Damon’s. I was also asked, to bring you too ma’am, if you’ll come.”

***

“You are telling me there is no antidote?” Damon sounded more dejected than dumbfounded.

The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes as he spoke. He seemed secretly delighted by his audience of one. “She was not known as the queen of poisons for no reason.” He said with a theatrical air. “As an assassin’s poison she was second to none, leaving no traces of poison in the body; it would appear instead, that her victim had simply died of natural causes. First, she causes a loss of sensation to the extremities, then a slowing of the heart, followed by eventual paralysis and convulsions; all the while leaving the head unclouded. Her victims often die of a heart attack, or more commonly, asphyxiation due to respiratory failure. In most cases however, the victim lapses into coma just before death, which I suppose is a blessing of sorts.”

A chill crept along Damon’s spine. Those symptoms, all which he spoke: a loss of sensation, slowness of breath, reduced heart rate—they were identical to what Nick was experiencing. Did that mean coma was next? Or was he already there? Damon had removed an arrowhead from his body, and Nick had remained unconscious. Was that because of a loss of sensation…or was he was already in a coma?

There was something however, that didn’t make sense. Ryan would not have sent him on a fool’s errand. “Then what of the list?” He asked the shop keep.

“Ah. To counter-act and deal with the symptoms. If each symptom is timely addressed, death does not have to be the outcome. Used correctly, poisons have acted as medicine since the dawn of time. Monkshood, for example, has been used medicinally for centuries to help treat those with heart problems. The roots or leaves are carefully boiled and distilled, where it can then be either used as a tea, or further made into an elixir. Remember of course, we are speaking of using only the smallest of amounts, in the weakest of concentrations.”

The shopkeeper paused for a moment to pull on a pair of gloves. “In cases of poisoning however, extreme methods are often used. Belladonna, for example; the deadly nightshade, I am gathering a sample of her for you now. In essence, you are attempting to use one type of poison to counteract another. Whereby one slows the heart, the other is known to cause a quickening. It must be dealt with carefully though, moderation is key.”

Damon was still bothered by it all. “Okay, I understand why historically it was used—but why nowadays? Surely modern medicine could be used instead. Why do you sell it at all?”

“I suppose it is because I believe that just because something is old, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t still useful, or shouldn’t belong in this world. Perhaps,” he said sombrely, eyeing Damon over the top of his spectacles “it is for the same reason that you didn’t simply take your friend to the emergency room—that there are those who exist in this world, for which the old ways are still the best.”

***

Nate was holding on for dear life, as once more Penelope rounded a turn much too quickly. So far, she had ignored at least five stop signs and ran three red lights in her haste to get to Damon’s.

Only minutes earlier they had been standing in her showroom as she demanded a peek into the small chest he was holding. She had glanced inside curiously. It took but a moment for her to understand the importance of the articles within. Nathan had seen the realization light up in her eyes—and then she was off. He had never seen a woman move that fast in heels before.

Nate too had glanced down into the chest, but the meaning behind the mundane objects had failed to make a connection with him.

“What are you waiting for?” She had called to him from the doorway, her keys already poised to lock up shop.

Now outside 42 Primrose Lane, Penelope was disembarking, but not before snatching up the chest that had been sitting between the front seats. She had abandoned her silver Benz askew on the street, not even bothering to close the door behind her as she ran. She reminded him of a small running-back with a chest for a football.

Nate too climbed out, stopping only to close the driver-side door before crossing the street and heading up the walkway towards the apartment building.

The apartments at 42, 44 and 46 Primrose Lane were of original Victorian architecture, each six-story high and identical in design. Surrounding the properties was a large stone fence that separated the buildings from the street beyond. The lawns inside were meticulously kept, and had it been spring, it would have been overflowing with flowering bush, plants and trees. Now however, most of the plants were being prepared for winter, with some of the smaller shrubs having been carefully wrapped in burlap.

Reaching the doorway, Nathan stepped around a ladder that had been set up in the entrance-way. Beyond the doors, an elderly gentleman was busily mopping the mosaic-tiled floor. Penelope Vaughn was nowhere to be seen.

Upstairs, Nate stopped outside of apartment 603. Steeling himself, he gave a quick rap on the door, before stepping inside. He glanced quickly around the room. The apartment’s only occupants seemed to be gathered in the living room below. He could see Ryan and Penelope, the former standing, almost on guard; his burly arms crossed in front of his chest, the latter kneeling in front of the sofa. Damon, he realized with some relief, wasn’t present. Nathan felt himself relax. The truth was that he never really knew how to behave around Damon, whose presence always made him uncomfortable.

Stepping down into the living room, he was just in time to see Ryan help Penelope to her feet. Beyond them, between the spaces of their bodies, Nathan could now see that there was a third person—a figure lying prone on the sofa behind them.

“Is that—?”

Penelope had quickly intercepted him, grabbing hold of Nate as he had rushed forward, holding him close with the instincts and compassion of a mother. “Sweet boy,” she addressed him tenderly. “We are going to take care of him. Do you hear me? Everything is going to be okay.”

Nate pulled away from her and began frantically pacing the room. “What happened?” he demanded of Ryan.

Ryan too, reached out and gently grabbed his face, forcing him to make eye contact with him. “The whole of it, I don’t entirely know. But the short of it, is that he’s been poisoned, by a hunter’s arrow.”

Nate stopped short. He felt his skin grow hot. “A hunter? Here in Kingsford?” The thought both angered and frightened him. “If there’s a hunter—”

“Then we’ll deal with it. Right now, what’s important, is taking care of Nick”

“Agreed. So, let’s get on with it.” Penelope had slipped off her suit jacket and was now carefully rolling up the sleeve of her pink blouse.

Nathan watched as Ryan opened the chest and began pulling out the items he had seen before; an old glass jar with a strange stopper-top, some lengths of rubber tubing, thin metal skewers or spikes and what appeared to be a metal tube or pipe.

“What is all of this?” Nate asked as Penelope took a seat in the armchair next to Nick.

“We’re going to perform a blood transfusion.” Ryan replied as he pulled fresh tubing from the Tupperware of supplies. He began connecting tubing to the glass bottle. To the other end of one of the tubes, he attached a long needle. “Nick’s lost a fair bit of blood, and Penelope has graciously agreed to donate some of hers. It’s my hope that her untainted blood will help to slowdown the toxicity within his system, long enough for his natural healing to overcome the effects of the wolfsbane.”

Ryan carefully slid the needle into a vein on her forearm, before securing it in place with tape. Immediately a dark fluid began to flow down through the tube, dripping into the bottle.

“Wolfsbane, did you say?” Penelope sounded intrigued. “It’s very likely that Nick will have a higher immunity to this poison. If we were to prepare a tincture of belladonna, we may be able to normalize his heart rate.”

Ryan sat down on the edge of the coffee table. “I’ve already sent Damon for the belladonna, but I have to admit that my knowledge of working with poisons is very limited.” Ryan looked at her suspiciously then. “Why is it that you think Nick may have some resistance to wolfsbane?”

“Because,” Penelope said reluctantly as she stumbled over her words. “Nick and I have—well, that is to say, I may have introduced him to—”

“Now’s not the time to mince words, Penelope—out with it!” Ryan demanded.

“Nick and I have been consuming aconite tea.” She blurted, dropping her eyes as she did.

“Why on earth would—”

“To control the wolf of course. In small doses, it has proven to help calm us in the days leading up to the full moon.”

“And you think that this exposure may have increased his immunity.”

“I think it’s very likely.”

Nathan was feeling very much like a child who’d been forgotten at the kids table while the grown-ups conversed in the next room. From his spot on the love seat, he sat quietly watching their exchange. He’d retreated there as soon as Ryan inserted the needle into Penelope’s arm. To say that he was uncomfortable with the situation, would be a gross understatement. It was no secret, the way he felt about bloodletting. The sight of it alone made his skin crawl prickly beneath his shirt. The smell, however, was far worse.

As soon as he’d descended into the living room, there’d been the faint scent of Nick’s blood in the air—a smell that Nathan shamefully hated to admit, was overpoweringly enticing. It set all of his senses on high alert. Now with the addition of Penelope’s fresh blood, he’d found himself growing increasingly irritable.

Then there were the sounds—he could hear Penelope’s heart beating from across the room as loud and clear as if someone had been hammering a ladle against a pot. Worst still, was the constant drip, drip, drip of her blood as it dropped into the transfusion bottle.

Nate covered his ears with his hands, trying to drown out the sounds, but they seemed to be more inside his head than out. Closing his eyes, he tried not to think of it, but the inviting smells, the wet dripping, all of it was driving him into a frenzy. He had to act—no, he needed to act; to kill—he wanted to silence the beating heart that was enticing him so very badly.

His derangement was such, that Nate couldn’t hear his name being repeatedly called, until strong hands were unexpectedly on him; forcing his own hands from his ears, replacing them with tender ones upon his cheeks as they gently held his face. From a distance he could hear a voice calling to him, through the haze and the hate, pushing past the hunger that was threatening to devour him whole.

“Open your eyes, Nathan. Listen to me. Open your eyes.”

Nathan obeyed, and his eyes were huge and black with desire. Everything was so overwhelmingly bright. Had he been outside, he would have been blinded. Buried within the brightness was the silhouette of a man, and the sudden overpowering smell of fresh blood.

“Drink” The voice commanded, and Nate latched onto the wrist from which the blood was freely flowing—lapping and sucking, his hunger paramount.

“Good boy,” he heard the shadow say, and the voice sounded closer, less hollow. “That’s right, come back to me Nate.”

He soon became aware of a hand gently stroking his head, petting him gently as he fed, and cooing to him softly. Slowly, the brightness faded, his thirst ebbed, and the sounds diminished. He now felt calm, content and sleepy. He released his grip on the man’s arm, seeing dark impressions where his fingers had latched on tight. He looked up to see Damon kneeling by him, watching him closely.

“Welcome back,” he said.