Chapter Four - The Circus

[Jonas Drava]

As dusk settled across the wilds, three powerfully-built men emerged from the shadows. Wrapped in cloaks with only their beards protruding, they climbed their way to the top of a bluff overlooking the urban area beyond. One-by-one they stood upon the summit, looking down at the city with wary, weathered eyes.

Anatoly Ranevsky Dráva stood tallest among the three. A barrel-chested man of fifty-six years and over six feet in height, he carried the weight of dozens upon his thick shoulders. His eyes pierced the darkness like flames, evaluating the scene before him. He looked old for his age, his skin thickened and creased with responsibility. As the group's leader, he had the responsibility of making decisions that had great repercussions among those who trusted him and looked to him for guidance. For several minutes he observed the city with the intensity of a father judging a boy's worthiness of courting his daughter. From this overlook he could see everything wrong about the city below. Petty Crime. Violence. Avarice and Greed. This was a dangerous place, unlike any they had been in recent years. But they would survive - perhaps thrive - as was the custom of their clan.

Viktor László was next in height. He drew a spyglass from his massive wool overcloak and put it to his one good eye. With the discipline of a former soldier in wars long-since forgotten, Viktor took it upon himself to see to the security of the group as Anatoly looked to their general welfare. He was even-tempered and wise, but also pessimistic and logical. Through the spyglass he he followed the city's largest street from one end to another, stopping to observe drunken sailors brawling. Next to them stood a horse, whinnying at the disruption and threatening to break its bridal free from the post to which it had been hitched. A bit further down the street stood a strange metal carriage. No one came to break up the fight after several minutes and eventually the drunk men ran out of steam. He lowered the spyglass and scratched at his craggy beard, considering the possibility of minimal law and order.

To Anatoly's other side stood Mihály Németh. He was shorter than his two companions at only five-foot-nine, and also younger at only forty-nine. But he was also built much more strongly, an intense physical specimen. His cloak concealed a muscled, well-trained body, despite the abuse of years of fighting. As the group's enforcer he was accustomed to settling disputes through violence - when Anatoly would allow him. Not as regimented as Viktor, many of the younger members of the group sought his counsel when they wanted an answer that would be more visceral and less reasoned. He cared not for the city below and barely gave it a second glance, confident that they could be safe anywhere.

Behind the three men on the plains below bustled a rampage of activity. Dozens of men and women worked through the night to erect tents and simple shelters. Elephants trumpeted and dogs barked furiously at the organized chaos. A shepherd tended to an unusually-large flock of sheep and marched them precariously through the center of the construction. The wind was strong and the threat of rain was imminent. Children played in the mud as their parents worked with rope and wood and hammers and nails to build their camp. Despite the fact they had only just started, by morning they would be done. Where once there was only an empty field, tomorrow a new strange village would be there.

The circus had come.

* * *

"This place seems odd," Viktor observed, his accent thick and dry. "I see signs of technology spanning hundreds of years in one place."

Mihály kneeled down in the grass, running his fingers over the ground. "This place is like any other," he responded. "People are the same everywhere. We will take their money and be gone before they realize what they've lost."

"We barely made it out of the last camp," Viktor observed. "I'd always thought torches and pitchforks were just in books."

"We made it because we were stronger," came Mihály's retort. "Those villagers were simple folk who didn't understand what they were dealing with. I was forged in the mines of Emberstone in the shadow of the great wall. I have seen too much to be so easily rattled."

"We must be more careful this time," Viktor warned, appealing to Anatoly's leadership. "Our people are getting more brazen, more careless. We can't afford to attract that kind of attention."

Anatoly stood silently, still looking out over the city.

Viktor placed a hand on his good friend's arm. "Anatoly, you better than anyone know the risks that come with mixing with outsiders." He practically spat the last word. "The dangers of staying in one place for too long. Through your leadership we have stayed safe. The young among us must be reminded to keep their distance and stay out of trouble."

"Papa!" came a shout, interrupting the debate. "Papa!"

The three men turned and a young girl ran into Mihály's arms. He scooped her up in his powerful arms and hoisted her into the air. "What is it, Márta?" he asked with a reassuring smile.

"There are some men here..." she answered breathlessly, panting from the run up the hill, "...men from the town. They have of Artúr with them - I think he's in trouble!"

That got Anatoly's attention, and a look of measured concern came over his face. He placed a calming hand on the young girl's shoulder. "Show us, Marta. Take us to these men."

The three elders of the circus came down the hill, led by a six-year-old girl. A crowd was beginning to gather at one of the temporary tents that was hastily-erected as an office. The sound of voices arguing carried across the plain, and the volume suggested that the discussion was about to get out of control. The workers parted as their leaders came down, and Viktor chastised them to get back to work. A few lingered, but most wandered off to return to the construction.

"Zoltán," barked Mihály to his son - a tall, handsome youth that towered over his father, "take your sister to the children's' tent and then return to work. There is much to be done before first light and I am not satisfied with the pace."

"Yes, father," Zoltán answered obediently. He took Márta's hand and lead her away from the scene as the elders stepped into the tent.

* * *

Inside the tent, three strangely-dressed men were holding a young boy in handcuffs. Their clothes were brightly-colored and very clean and orderly. The young boy, however, was clearly a member of the clan - dressed practically in cloth rags like some kind of street urchin. He stood defiant until he saw the elders enter the tent and his expression immediately demurred. Arguing with the three strangers was a well-built, handsome man in his late-20s - despite his unshaven face and wild hair he looked to be related to the young boy. He stopped yelling immediately when the elders entered, lowering his head in respect. A fire burned bright at the center of the tent, casting eerie shadows upon the woolen walls.

Anatoly Dráva lowered his hood and removed his cloak, revealing his full stature to all assembled. Without even saying a word he commanded the immediate respect of everyone present, and the loyalty of those in his clan. Even the three strangers paused their arguing in deference to the arrival of the apparent leader of these circus folk.

The other elders also removed their cloaks. Mihály stood near the entrance as a guard, folding his muscled arms over his broad chest. Viktor walked towards the young boy and began touching him all over, making sure he was uninjured. The three strangers didn't appreciate their prisoner being checked over like so much cattle, but they didn't dare challenge Viktor's intimidating stature. Once Viktor was satisfied the boy was okay he stepped aside, staying close in case his services were needed.

"What is this about?" demanded Anatoly. His voice was deep, almost vibrating the ground beneath their feet.

One of the strangers - possibly the leader - stepped forward. He wore a silly red top hat and a silver watch dangled from his vest. Gray hair fringed the hit and he wore small, dainty spectacles. "I am Preston B. Vander Ark," he said, his voice high-pitched and almost vibrato with nerves. "I own a clock shop in town where I hand-craft clocks and other timepieces."

He waited, as if expecting Anatoly - or anyone else in the tent - to identify themselves. No one spoke.

"Uh, this boy came into my shop this evening ... and I caught him stealing money from the register."

"Caught him red-handed!" added another of the men, the one holding the boy's arm.

Anatoly's eyes scanned each man's face. His gaze was piercing, as if he could read each of their expressions for the truth. Finally he looked down at the young boy, who stared at his own dirty bare feet.

"When we found out where he came from," added the final stranger - possibly the most confident of the three, "we brought him back here. We see you setting up this ... carnival ... and we want to make sure you know that this petty gypsy nonsense is not acceptable in our city. Keep your children to yourselves," he added defiantly with just a tinge of prejudice.

Mihály uncrossed his arms, cracking his knuckles. Viktor stood silently, showing no reaction. Anatoly reached up a hand to stroke his beard.

"How dare you come here and treat us in this matter," blurted the younger member of the clan who was previously arguing with the strangers. "We welcome you into our tent and you disrespect my family."

"Your tent is on public land," retorted the second stranger, tightening his grip on the young boy. "You can't just show up here and claim it without proper procedures."

"Is that what this is about?" pressed the young man. "Did you accuse my brother of stealing as a pretext to come here and threaten us? To scare us away?"

"We don't need your kind," the third stranger sneered. "Tramps and thieves the lot of you. We know your kind."

The young man took a step forward, but Anatoly held up a hand. "János," he scolded in that bassy, omnipresent voice. "Be silent or leave."

Jonas stepped back immediately, showing not even a second's defiance of his elder.

"Look," started the first man, the clockmaker Vander Ark, "I think maybe we've gotten off on the wrong foot," he continued, trying to navigate the dispute. "We have nothing against you folks setting up here. We just don't want any crime or hoodlumism."

Anatoly took a step toward the second man - his movement signaling the end of the discussion for the time being. His eyes were intense and his presence overpowering. Everyone around seemed to shrink a bit.

"Release my son," he commanded with a quiet voice.

"You...you...your son?" the stranger stammered.

Anatoly nodded. "Artúr."

The stranger gave panicked glances to each of his companions. Finally the first stranger gave him a permissive nod. "Let him go, Herbert. He's just a boy."

With that, Herbert fumbled about in his pocket for a key to the handcuffs. He quickly released the boy who ran to his father and clung onto his leg.

Anatoly put a hand on Artúr's shoulder and pushed him back a bit so he could look at him. "Are you harmed?"

"No, father," he answered.

"Did you steal from this man's shop?" he asked.

Artúr lowered his head like any boy would who's been caught stealing. "Yes, father."

"Did you return what you stole?"

"I caught him before he had the chance to steal anything!" announced Herbert proudly.

Anatoly's eyes continued to pierce. "Did you?"

With a sheepish pout, Artúr reached into his rags and produced a man's wristwatch. Made of gold and bejeweled with diamonds, it was probably worth more money than the boy would see in a lifetime. He handed the timepiece over to his father.

Preston B. Vander Ark gaped. "My goodness!" he exclaimed. He then turned to Herbert. "I thought you said you watched him from the moment he came into the shop!" Suddenly the small man had some fight to him.

Herbert shrugged helplessly. "I swear I did. I knew he was trouble from the instant I saw him. We keep that piece in a glass case, no way he stole it!"

"And yet there it is," Vander Ark observed.

"Anything else?" Anatoly asked, ignoring the antics.

Artúr reached into another hiding place and produced a pocket watch - similar to the one carried by Vander Ark - but a bit larger and more ornate. Anatoly took it calmly.

"I can't believe this!" shouted Vander Ark in a high-pitched voice.

"Go on," Anatoly commanded.

Artúr reached behind his head and drew out a magnifying glass. It didn't appear especially valuable but Vander Ark choked. "That's mine!" he sputtered.

Anatoly took the magnifying glass, now struggling to hold all three delicate objects without breaking anything. "Is there anything else?"

Artúr looked up at his father with tear-soaked eyes. He wasn't getting any joy from this, although an occasional snicker came from the direction of Jonas.

"Do not lie to me," Anatoly warned.

Artúr plopped down on the ground and reached into the leg of his "pants." He came up with a tiny crystal jeweler's eye and offered it up.

"That's mine too!" Vander Ark shouted. "Did you leave anything in the store?" he asked incredulously.

Anatoly took the jeweler's eye and somewhat awkwardly handed all four objects back to Vander Ark, who snatched them up quickly and deposited them in the various pockets of his suede vest. Anatoly then turned, and while standing next to the besmirched clockmaker, he demanded an apology from his son. "Tell this man that you are sorry for stealing from him and that it will never happen again."

Artúr murmured something at the dirt, still sitting on the ground.

"I cannot hear you," thundered his father.

Another mumble.

"Really, it's okay," Vander Ark protested nervously. "We can go now."

"My son will apologize or I will show him the meaning of remorse," Anatoly warned.

Artúr slowly came to his feet, looking up at Vander Ark. His eyes were now soaked with tears and his lips trembled. Although is voice was low he kept the eye contact and spoke respectfully. "I am sorry I stole from you, sir."

"And?" demanded his father.

"It will never happen again," Artúr continued.

Vander Ark smiled. "Your apology is accepted."

"Now go outside and wait for me, boy."

Artúr meekly trudged out of the tent. Mihály, who was once again standing with his arms folded tightly over his chest, stepped aside to let him pass.

Anatoly spun around and glared at the third man, as-yet unnamed. "This is not a carnival," he lectured, "it is a circus. We do not deserve your scorn and we will not stand for your prejudice. If you three are representative of the people of this town, then I worry for the future of your society."

Vander Ark took a step forward, hands up in the air. "Please, he didn't mean anything by it. I can see that you are an honorable man."

"Children make mistakes," Anatoly continued, eyes shooting holes through the third man. "My son apologized for his. Will you do the same?"

The man did not appear intimidated and he glanced around the tent, care-free. "Around here we don't impress easily, nor are we scared off by your primitive gypsy voodoo. I think our society will be fine."

Mihály took a step forward but Anatoly held up a staying hand. "These men were just leaving."

"Yes," Vander Ark said, "we should go. Good luck in RhyDin, gentlemen. Good luck with your carnival -- circus -- I mean."

Anatoly stepped aside, as did Mihály. The three strangers filed out into the night.

* * *

"I wish to be alone with my oldest boy," Anatoly announced. Viktor placed a hand on Jonas' shoulder and walked out, followed by Mihály.

Once they were alone, Anatoly practically charged at his boy. "Is this how you set an example for your younger brother?" he thundered. "We've barely been in a place two hours and already he's stealing trinkets from a local shop?"

Jonas stood his ground. "He made a mistake. We fixed it. Problem solved."

"This problem is not solved," Anatoly retorted. "Those men are already telling the people of this city that we are thieves and cannot be trusted. I was hoping to stay here for three or four months before they chase us out. Now we may be lucky to last the weekend."

"You are too dramatic, father," his son brazenly answered. "We will be fine."

"We were chased out of the last town by an angry mob!" Anatoly shouted. "Your sister was nearly burned at the stake for witchcraft of all things. Is that what you want to happen here?"

Jonas scowled, but he let down his guard and held the argument. "No, father."

Anatoly reached into his pocket and produced the clockmaker's pocket watch, the one previously fastened to his vest. He poked his son with it in the chest like a schoolmaster's baton. "You'd better teach that boy how not to be caught by three yokels on some backwards planet. And if he ever does get caught, he should know to do anything other than to bring them back to us. Your brother brought shame and embarrassment on the entire clan. On the entire circus. And I won't have it!"

"Yes, father." Jonas now seemed very small, very meek compared to the powerful figure of his father.

"Now go outside and take Artúr to the children's' tent and give him something to stay out of trouble. Then I want you to find Zoltán and the foreman and get to work. If this circus isn't built by sunrise, I will personally discipline every able-bodied person in this clan. Is that understood?"

"Yes, father."

Jonas hastily ducked out of the tent, leaving Anatoly alone. The patriarch stood before the fire, warming his hands. It began to mist lightly outside, and he could hear raindrops pattering against the tent. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the flames. The weight of dozens rested heavily on his shoulders and finally, alone, he sighed.

[Devon Goral]

Devon Goral, The Protector, walked purposely across the field toward the farmhouse beyond. He was not dressed for a trip to the ranch - wearing his trademark business suit (without a tie), longcoat, and urban sunglasses. He cringed as each step coated his expensive Italian loafers with mud (and possibly worse) and silently cursed his decision not to dress more casually.

The sun was at its noon pinnacle and was slowly baking the muddy ground solid. Devon glanced around as he walked, constantly evaluating potential threats. Could an assassin be hiding in the field within the corn? On top of the grain elevator? Inside one of the windows of the barn? It didn't make sense - Devon had no reason to believe he would fall under attack. But his profession was borne from a compulsion and he no longer had the ability to take a breath without silently regarding the possibility that someone would try to snuff it out.

Today he was here not as a bodyguard, but as the sidekick. He was not accustomed to being sent on errands (although, to be fair, he volunteered for this one) and he certainly wasn't accustomed to playing second-fiddle to anyone. Nor was this job - hunting down a stolen book - the kind of thing he typically took on. But this was different, his patron was a woman with whom he had recently become very close. He wanted to be helpful to her, wanted to make things work out. Plus, the money was good and he was looking to diversify.

As he reached the farmhouse and came 'round a tractor, he was immediately set-upon by the rancher. Jonathan Doakes was a thin man of above-average height, hair gray and almost completely receded, and skin dark and worn from a lifetime working outside in the elements. But his smile lit up a hundred acres and shone brighter than the noon sun above. As he approached The Protector he extended a hand and the two shared a hearty shake.

"Devon Goral!" he cried out with that trademark smile. "So good to see you again!"

Devon shook the man's hand and gave a polite smile. He was not accustomed to such overt exclamations and his shyness came to bear. "Hello, Jonathan."

"How the hell are you?" Doakes pressed.

"I'm good," Devon answered with a nod. "Very good. You?"

"Couldn't be better. We've had tons of rain and everything is blooming. And today couldn't be nicer," he pointed out, extending his arm toward the fields of thriving crops. "It's a good day to be a farmer."

"Thank you for seeing me," was the only response. Devon was quick to get to business when he didn't know what else to say.

"Well, of course!" Doakes answered, and he gestured for Devon to walk with him on a tour of the ranch. "The moment I got your message I jumped at the opportunity to help you."

"Well, thank you. How's Joanie?"

Doakes slapped the taller man on the back. "She's doing fantastic. Just gave birth to our fourth child. A boy. Donald."

Devon smiled, somehow that warmed his heart. "That's great, Jonathan. Congratulations. Got any pictures?"

"Do I?" Doakes proudly pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket and produced a stream of photos of a tiny newborn baby boy. The two stopped briefly to look.

Devon smiled as he flipped through them. "Handsome lad."

"Thank you!" beamed Doakes. They continued walking and he put the photos away. "I wouldn't have Donald if it weren't for you. I wouldn't have Melissa."

"Oh, Jonathan," Devon dismissed.

"I mean, it Devon," Doakes responded sagely. "Her father's enemies would have killed her or worse. I owe you a great debt."

"You paid me well, Jonathan," Devon answered. He didn't feel he deserved any special adulation for doing his job and he was uncomfortable with the attention. "You don't owe me anything."

"You went above and beyond, Devon," Doakes persisted. "You helped us find the guys responsible and bring them to justice. I'll never forget that."

The Protector nodded quietly.

"Oh, how's your wife? I used to see her at the market sometimes but it's been a while."

Devon frowned a bit, chewing on his lip. "She's doing well. I keep pretty busy with work and I ... I don't see her as often as I'd like."

"Oh, that's a shame, Devon." He paused, scratching at the back of his neck. "If you don't mind some unsolicited advice - I've been a rancher all my life. My father was a rancher and his father before him. My family has worked this land for three generations. It's hard, sometimes back-breaking work. From before sunrise until long after the sun sets. But through it all, I've always made sure to take time for my wife and my children. Otherwise what's the point?"

The Protector held his breath, biting harder at his lip. The ground was hardening and getting dusty and he kicked at a small twig.

"So I put together a list for you," Doakes said, finally breaking the silence and pulling a small notepad out of the back of his pants. "You wanted a list of anyone buying up lots of animals under suspicious circumstances, or people who suddenly showed up with large orders that I didn't know."

"Thank you, Jonathan."

"I also talked to some of the other ranches around here. They gave me lists and I combined the list. I put stars by some of the names who bought from several of us - spread around the orders. Those deserve extra scrutiny." He handed over the notepad and Devon glanced down at it.

"Jonathan, you really put a lot of effort into this," Devon observed, reading. "I don't know what to say."

"It really was my pleasure, Devon. Not just to help you, but if some sick bastard is mistreating animals, they should be found and stopped. This isn't a game, this is my livelihood."

Devon nodded. "Thank you."

"Now Devon, something came up recently that I thought I should call attention to. After I wrote the list."

The two men stopped as they reached the barn, and Jonathan leaned on an old dusty tractor.

"Go ahead," Devon bid.

"Have you heard about the circus that just set up outside of town?" Doakes asked, pausing to light his cigarette and take a puff. "Over the ridge."

Devon glanced around for somewhere to lean, but everything was dirty or dusty. He decided to just stand there and he shook his head. "I have not."

"It's big news around town the last few days. Bunch of gypsy carnies showed up in the dead of night and set the thing up. Already there have been thefts and cons. Bad news."

"What does that have to do with the list?"

"A couple days before I got here, they ordered fifty sheep from me. I delivered them yesterday."

"Fifty?" Devon glanced at the list to compare.

"Yeah. And they bought fifty from McDonald's farm to the north, fifty from Old Maid Gammon's farm to the east, and fifty from Larry Fitchner's farm to the southwest."

"Two hundred sheep just from the farms around here," Devon observed, always quick with the basic math. "That seems like a lot."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. Plus, have you ever heard of a circus using sheep? My father took me to a circus when I was six. We saw elephants and lions and tigers -- but I'm fairly certain there were no sheep."

Devon nodded. "I will check that out."

"I think it should be your first stop. Something ain't right about those carnies."

"Thank you, Jonathan. I will."

"Anything else I can help you with?"

"Yes, I had one other lead come up. We think that the person we're looking for might have need of insects. Any idea where someone could procure hundreds - perhaps thousands of insects?"

Doakes frowned, tossing away his cigarette and kicking at a rock in the dirt. "That's a tough one. I don't know anyone that deals in insects."

"We thought he might try the sewers."

At that, Jonathan glanced up and snapped his fingers. "Then you need to talk to Crazy Ryland."

A raised brow. "Crazy who?"

"Ryland. He's lived in the sewers going on twenty years. He used to raise and train rats and he was good at it, but time has not been kind to him. I'm afraid he's lost his mind and now he mostly wanders around the sewers talking to himself. If anyone's doing anything shady in the sewers, he'd know about it."

The Protector produced a pen from inside his coat and made notes on the notepad both about the circus and the sewer dweller. "Where can I find this Ryland?"

"I sometimes see him fishing at the big sewer output near the docks when I'm picking up shipments."

Devon nodded. "Well, I think that's all." He took a step forward and again the two men shook hands.

"Bless you, Devon Goral," Doakes lauded. "And good luck with this operation of yours."

Devon smiled genuinely. "Thank you, Jonathan. If you hear anything else..."

"...you'll be my first call."

* * *

Still wearing his ill-conceived suit, Devon walked through the dust toward the circus. It was in full operation, although the daytime operation didn't seem as grand as it possibly could be. Various denizens of RhyDin milled about, being entertained by jugglers, fire eaters, and a unicyclist. But Devon wasn't interested in any of that, giving it only enough attention to appraise any threats. He straightened toward the back of the circus, where the huts and tents belonging to the carnies stood against a backdrop of dust. He zeroed in on a large ramshackle hut that was still under construction - a crude barn from which the sound of bleating sheep emanated.

As The Protector approached, he was spotted by two young men who appeared to be securing a tarp to the top of the barn. They were both handsome, well-built, in their late-20s. Neither wore shirts and a sheen of sweat covered their upper-bodies as they worked with various tools to nail the tarp into place. The blond man was the first to spot Devon and he jumped down from a foothold half-way up the wall. He wore his hair short and had a closely-cropped beard. The other man, with dark hair continued to work even after he noticed Devon. His hair was more wild, dirty with sawdust. His facial hair was scruffy, the beard more a result of not having shaven for several days. Yet despite his wild look, his green eyes were kind - if suspicious. Both men were of similar height - both shorter than Devon, perhaps around six feet - but also both younger and better-built. Still he was confident he could take them if he had to.

"This area is off-limits to guests," the blond man warned. "Please return to the circus." He dipped a ladle into a bowl of water and drank from it, spilling just a bit.

"Actually I'm not a guest," Devon responded. He stood where he could keep both men in his sight, ready in case one of them revealed himself to be a threat.

"Are you here with a sheep delivery?" the dark-haired man asked, still struggling with the tarp.

Devon shook his head. "No, but I was sent by McDonald's farm. There is some concern that one of the sheep we sent you might be sick and I was asked to inspect the entire lot."

The two men exchanged glances. They seemed dubious.

"If you won't let me look at them, I'll have to call in the city inspector. There could be an epidemic that affects your entire, uh, flock."

"You're from the farm?" the blond man asked incredulously. "You don't look like a farmer."

"It was my day off," Devon answered quickly. He didn't really think this ruse through as well as he should have. "I was called in specifically for this job."

The dark-haired man jumped down from the wall and set down his tools. "I can take him through," he said to the blond. "Why don't you get Shepherd Amédé and your father."

The blond nodded, but he did not move, instead ladling himself another drink of water.

The dark-haired man slipped into a dirty, sweaty sleeveless white t-shirt and took a step forward towards Devon, thrusting out a muscled hand. "My name is Jonas. This is Zoli."

The blond nodded respectfully, but showed no signs of pleasantness. Devon shook the man's hand, his grip firm and commanding.

"Are you two in charge of the sheep here?"

Zoli chuckled. "We're just laborers," he said with a somewhat sarcastic sneer. "Barn needs to be built, we build it. Dogs need to be walked, we walk them. Water needs to be trucked in from town, we drive the truck."

Devon nodded. "Well, I appreciate you giving me the tour."

"And you are?" Jonas asked pointedly.

"Mack."

"From the farm," Jonas offered.

"From the farm," Devon answered with a reassuring smile.

"I'll go get the shepherd," Zoli said, walking past the two men.

"Well I'll show you the lot from your farm," Jonas offered, and he took Devon inside the barn. The sight inside was fairly chaotic - the barn was filled with hundreds of sheep all milling about a fairly tightly-contained area. The conditions were poor and Devon was immediately suspicious. Something just wasn't right here.

"So what are all these sheep for?" Devon asked, looking around for anything that might suggest that this was a mad scientist's lair. "You sure do have a lot."

"We live off the land," Jonas answered, checking the tags on various sheep's ears as he walked. "We butcher them for their meat and use their wool to make our clothes and tents."

Devon took a moment to note Jonas' wardrobe - he was dressed in modern clothing - a cotton t-shirt and denim jeans. He wasn't exactly dressed like a gypsy nomad.

"We're getting ready to start butchering. If you had come tomorrow this place would be practically empty."

"I see," was all Devon could think to say.

"This is your group here."

The sheep were not really segregated and it didn't seem obvious to Devon how the man knew. But he pulled out Jonathan Doakes' notepad and pretended to inspect several of the sheep. He looked at their ears, their snouts, inside their noses. Again, no sign of mad science.

"What is going on here?" came a loud voice from the barn's entrance. Both men spun around to see three new men approaching. The blond - Zoli - led two others to where they stood. With him was a thin dark-skinned man of exotic appearance, and a very large, barrel-chested man with arms like tree trunks. It was the large man who pointed straight at Devon.

"You're not supposed to be here!" he chastised. "You must go at once."

"He's from the farm," Jonas offered, "they think one of the sheep they sold us might be sick."

"Mack!" Devon offered cheerfully, extending his hand to shake.

The barrel-chested man glanced down at the hand and then back up. "These sheep belong to us now. We will see to their health. Get out at once."

"Look, if you don't want to cooperate, I'm going to have to get the city inspector--"

The large man reached for Devon's notebook but he yanked it back, out of reach. "Now hold on a minute."

"Get out or I'll throw you out," the man commanded.

Devon raised up his arms defensively. Something wasn't right about this but he wasn't about to get into a fight with four potentially-dangerous strangers, three of which were built like trucks. "Okay, I'll go."

Devon found himself being escorted out of the barn. The thin man stayed but the other three walked him out, staying practically glued to him as he walked. He hoped that they wouldn't try touching him for fear that they'd find him to be armed. It would be tough to explain why a cattle inspector was wearing a high-powered automatic pistol in a shoulder holster.

Once out of the barn, Devon decided to give the investigation one more shot. "I need your name for my report," he said to the ringleader.

The man ignored his request, crossing his arms over his massive chest. He no intention of cooperating.

"I think it's time you go," Zoli said.

With that, Devon turned and walked back toward the circus proper. He was not escorted any further but he could feel dozens of eyes on the back of his head as he walked. Jonathan was right, something wasn't right here, and he was determined to return with backup and find out just what was going on.

* * *

When The Protector came to the sewers, he was more appropriately dressed in casual clothes and wading boots. The channels below the surface of RhyDin city are something to behold. All the evil that wells up around the city and is suppressed by occasional good (or basic indifference) ends up being banished down here. It's not just like being in a sewer. It's like being in a sewer in hell.

Devon started his search for Ryland at the docks, where a giant opening in the sewer line permitted sewage to drain into the waters beyond. There was no sign of the reclusive man so Devon decided to proceed inside. He wasn't easily spooked by this kind of environment, despite being a bit of a neat freak and a gramophone. The secret was being prepared for the environment. Devon in a suit at a farm = bad times. Devon in hip waders in the sewer = no problem.

The sounds were another matter, however. There were strange noises in the sewers beneath RhyDin. He couldn't quite figure out what it was ... a cross between wailing and moaning and squeaking. It was ... disconcerting. Still he pressed on - he had a job to do and wasn't going to let spooky sewer demons scare him off.

As he progressed through the sewer, avoiding anything that looked dead or otherwise disgusting, he started to notice a pattern by the rats. They would come toward him, appraise him, and then move off down the tunnels. Soon he realized - at least he thought he realized - that they were spying on him. That there was a pattern. If only he could figure it out.

He started following the rats. One rat in particular - for no particular reason other than it looked like it knew where it was going (certainly better than he did). The other rats came and went, dodging down adjoining tunnels or ducking under the water, but he stayed locked on this particular one. He named it Harry. Because it was unusually hairy. And as he moved deeper and deeper and deeper into the system the sounds grew louder and more foreboding, but so did the squeaks of the rats. They became increasingly agitated to the point that they were beginning to throw themselves in the air around him.

Then near total silence. Devon realized that he'd reached a dead end - some kind of chamber. An old valve pumping room, according to the faded sign on the chipped wall. And inside was an old man, crouched on an old beaten-up recliner, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl. The rats circled around this man like subjects in a throne room, chirping quietly to let him know that he had a visitor. He looked up, but his expression was as vacant as his sightless eyes.

"Come in," he bid. "Come in and let me make you at home."

Devon stepped over the threshold and into the dry room. He glanced around to find a collection of odds and ends - an old broken computer, a pile of worn shoes, a desk missing two legs - discarded trash that the world above had long-since lost any use. Then he looked back at the tiny old man, pathetically reigning over this malefic underworld.

"Are you Ryland?" Devon asked.

The old man tilted his head, as if hearing language for the first time. He pressed an ear in Devon's general direction. "It speaks to me," he said to the rats. "Yet I do not understand the language," he continued in flawless English.

"My name is Devon Goral. I've come to you to ask you some questions."

"Then sit down," the man offered, suddenly lucid, "and tell me of your world. And if I believe you and if I am satisfied, I will tell you of mine."

[Jonas Drava]

Deimos and Phobos snarled and foamed as they stalked down the streets of RhyDin, gregariously sniffing at the air and snapping their fangs together aggressively. Despite being "led" on chain leashes by their masters, they were clearly in control and eager to feast on everything this new city had to offer. A hair too small to be wolves yet much too big to be dogs, denizens were quick to get out of their path for fear of being eaten alive. They cut a swath down RhyDin's most populace street, everything kneeling and parting before them.

"Your father forbade us from boxing after hours, Jonas, do you really want to risk his wrath?" Zoli asked with a sneer.

"He just doesn't want to find out about it," Jonas answered. "Maybe if he'd spend some money on some decent gym equipment, it wouldn't be an issue."

Zoli laughed. At six-foot-one he was the slightly-taller of the two, his blond hair and beard close-cropped and well-maintained. Yet his blue eyes held a certain wildness in them as he scanned the frightened crowd in front of him. He was especially interested in the ladies, and noted with interest the many differing styles of dress.

"Besides, he just doesn't want the children getting involved" Jonas continued. "Long as we don't invite them, I don't think he cares." Standing at exactly six feet tall (on a good day), he was a bit shorter than his best friend and not as well-groomed. His beard was wild and his hair (despite being well-conditioned) cascaded around his face - which was plastered with a huge grin as if he knew all the secrets of the world. Piercing green eyes were less interested in the people around them than the contents of the various stores they passed. He was shopping.

Both men were young, vital, and well-built. Zoli wore a tight synthetic muscle shirt and Jonas a cotton sleeveless t-shirt - both in combination with worn, faded jeans. Their hands were covered in calluses and their muscled arms with bruises from honest work (or possibly brawling). It was warm and both men were sweating lightly. They struggled with the leashes to their "pets" as the animals sought to charge ahead and devour anyone foolish enough to be in their way, but the men seemed to pay little attention to the fact that they were being led around city by giant slavering beasts, instead wrapped up in their conversation.

Zoli took a deep breath. "So nice to finally be in a real city," he observed. "I'm so tired of playing little villages in the middle of nowhere."

"From what I understand, this is about as 'nowhere' as it gets," Jonas answered, eyeing a fur coat displayed prominently in a store window.

Zoli shrugged. "I don't really care where we are as long as there's some entertainment. Jonas I need to live, I need to experience something other than the circus. Don't you ever get hungry for the world outside our crowded wagons? Families piled together, children pecking at your feet like so many chickens?"

"Don't let your father hear you say that. He'd accuse you of being ungrateful for the 'roof' he places over your head."

"You mean the one that you and I spent over an hour fixing in the rain and wind last night?"

Both men chuckled.

"Where's your sister?" Zoli asked. "I was hoping she'd come into town with us, she's usually up for some exploring."

"Rehearsing her fire-eating routine. She takes her act pretty seriously."

"Pity."

Jonas elbowed his best friend in the arm. "Stop that, you know our fathers are never going to let you see my sister. She's not your type anyway."

Zoli let out a hearty laugh. "Really, Jonas? What is my type?"

"You favor the innocent farm girls, from my experience. Julia would eat you alive in a second."

Zoli's eyes fell on a waify young thing covered in tattoos and piercings. "Farm girls are nice ... but I have a lot of love in my heart ... for all kinds."

"Love? Is that what you call what you do?"

Zoli laughed heartily.

"Just keep my sister out of it," Jonas admonished. "Don't think I won't put you down if I see you licking your chops at her."

"What about you, Jonas? Isn't it time you stopped to enjoy life for once?"

Phobos reared up as Jonas stopped suddenly, peering into the window of a shop. A massive emerald, ringed by diamonds, was prominently displayed among other jewelry pieces. The light caught the piece perfectly, causing it reflections to play out over Jonas' face and he was momentarily entranced.

Zoli got a bit farther down the street before he realized he was now walking alone, and he dragged Deimos backwards to catch up. He frowned as he realized what his friend was doing. "Jonas, you shouldn't stare like that. People are going to think you a thief. Bad enough they're already sending 'sheep inspectors' to spy on us."

Jonas' eyes sparkled with equal intensity to the gem. As Phobos struggled against the leash, he stood transfixed.

Zoli nudged his friend hard in the rubs with his elbow. "Come on, let's go. You're going to start drooling."

Reluctantly, Jonas turned and the two continued down the sidewalk.

For a few moments they did not speak until Zoli decided to again tease his friend. "So would you wear a piece like that or give it to a girl? Oh, wait, you don't have a girl." He laughed.

"A 'piece like that' isn't meant to be worn," Jonas answered. "Just admired."

Zoli scoffed.

"...and then sold," Jonas continued with a grin.

"So I wonder what there is to do around here," Zoli pondered, "for fun."

"When do you and I ever have time for fun?" Jonas asked with a smirk. "There's always work to be done at the circus."

"How much longer do you intend to stay under your father's thumb?" Zoli asked pointedly. "Isn't it time for us to go out and do our own thing?"

"What 'thing' is that, Zoltán?" Jonas asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you even have any skills other than carpentry and fighting?"

"There's a whole universe out there at my fingertips," Zoli answered enthusiastically, eyes flashing. "I can do whatever I want. I can have whatever I want. I stand taller than everyone around me and some day I'm going to leave the circus and take my birthright over these sheep." He gestured dismissively at the frightened people around them.

Jonas laughed. "Your father would beat you within an inch of your life if he heard you talking like that. He's been a circus man all his life and he expects the same for you. Stop this nonsense talk."

Zoli turned, now walking backwards, his face a mix of excitement and aggression. "Come now, János, I know you feel it too. You have spoken often about how circus life is not for you, how you yearn for something better. Maybe this is the place. Maybe it's time we sought our fortunes away from the clan."

"That is useless talk, Zoli. Our fathers would never allow it. 'The clan stays together.' Now watch where you walk before Deimos eats a child."

Zoli turned and for a time the two men again walked side-by-side. For several minutes they did not speak, merely taking in the chaotic scene around them. Phobos lucked into a turkey leg that someone had dropped on the ground and scooped it up into his massive jaws. At that moment both men stopped, eyes looking across the street and raising in unison up to the sky.

"What is this place?" Jonas asked. They were looking at one of the largest buildings they had ever seen.

Zoli ran across the street, and Deimos took the opportunity to leap forward and charge. Jonas followed behind, also at a quick pace.

"The Red Dragon Inn," Zoli read from the sign. Despite it being the middle of the day, they could hear raucous activity inside. "Let's go in!" Zoli suggested.

Jonas scoffed, pointing at the dogs. "They'll tear the place apart."

Zoli walked down the length of the building, eyeing various flyers. He pulled one down off the wall, reading. "Hydra Cup ... tournament ... Duel of Fists... Jonas, they have BOXING here!"

That got Jonas' attention and he stepped forward. "Let me see that," and he snatched it from his friend's hands. Since he was Arthur's age he boxed with the other children (now young men) of the circus and he was proud of his skill, but he rarely had the opportunity to test his skills away from the circus beyond the occasional stupid drunken bar fight.

"This is exactly what you were looking for," Zoli exclaimed. "You can sneak out of the circus and come here to fight. Our fathers need never know."

Jonas scratched his chin. "Worth a thought."

"Let's come back tonight!" Zoli continued, the excitement palpable.

Jonas bawled up the flyer and shoved it into his jeans pocket. "Not tonight, Zoli."

"Yes, tonight. I can't live another night as my father's slave. TONIGHT. Join me, Jonas."

Jonas shook his head defiantly. "You know we can't go out tonight. I'll come back with you here any time you want but not tonight."

"That's absurd," Zoli protested, wagging his finger around in the air. "There's no danger."

Jonas grabbed his friend's arm, squeezing hard. He lowered his voice, aware that they were the center of attention of passersby. "Not TONIGHT. We do not take the risk. Tonight the entire circus gathers in the large tent and we tell stories. It has been this way since we left home."

Zoli wrenched his arm away from his friend, scowling. "Perhaps you are not as ready as I thought to defy your father's will, János. Perhaps you are still meant to be his slave, forever living within the confines of his great 'circus.' But not me. I am a god among sheep. And tonight I will leave the circus and come to this city."

"I will not allow it," Jonas threatened.

Zoli tilted his head, his voice taunting. "Are you sure you'll be in the large tent tonight, Jonas? You won't be stealing that emerald?"

"Keep your voice down!" Jonas hissed.

"You have your compulsions, János, I have mine. Maybe it's time we start looking toward our future and not our past."

The two dogs began getting restless, snapping at passersby and causing a scene. Finally Zoli ended the confrontation and urged Deimos to begin moving again.

For several minutes the two men walked in silence, both seething with anger. They had been best friends practically since birth but their personalities - inspired by the stations of their powerful fathers - didn't always mesh well.

"I will come back to this place with you, Zoli," Jonas finally said, his voice low. "Just not tonight."

"Okay," Zoli said dismissively. He didn't need to be done any favors and his mind was already planning his escape.

"Stay with me at the circus tonight. Tomorrow we can make plans. Plans to be as men among boys."

"Whatever you want, Jonas. You're right."

Jonas narrowed his eyes. He knew that once Zoli made his mind up, there was no dissuading him. He would sneak out from tonight's gathering and come down to this city on the one night in thirty that he shouldn't. That he couldn't.

A god among sheep.

[Jonas Drava]

Sir Patrick Gould made his way through the heart of RhyDin city, weaving his way through the typical midday weekend throngs of shoppers and tourists. Gould was a thin, wiry man of approximately fifty years, athletic-yet-seasoned. He wrote simple khaki shorts and a matching button-up shirt as if he were on safari. On his back was slung a high-powered rifle, of which no one seemed to take special notice. As he approached his destination - in the middle of the street - he noted without surprise that a crowd was assembled. A portion of the street was blocked off by stanchions and several officious-looking men stood about taking pictures.

Gould was met by Andrew Elston, a short and thin man of near-gaunt appearance, clearly unaccustomed to being outside in the sun. The two men shook hands and Elston greeted Sir Gould.

"Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. Mr. Harrold appreciates your help."

"Of course, I came as soon as I heard," Sir Gould answered. "But why is Mr. Harrold here and not at the hospital?"

"You'd have to ask him that yourself," Elston answered passively. The two men approached the gathering.

"How long ago did this happen?"

"Shortly after midnight last night."

Sir Gould and Elston breached the assembled crowd. Just inside the rope lone stood a man of some girth. He wore a fine tuxedo but his shirt was torn open and soaked in blood. His chest was wrapped tightly in bandages. He was sweating under the summer sun, and he appeared pale. Yet he stood over the investigators with determination, directing them as they took pictures and collected evidence. The street itself was soaked in blood, speckled with torn scraps of clothing, and the investigators were carefully documenting the scene.

"Make sure you take blood samples from each part of the scene," he commanded. "Don't assume that all the blood is ours."

"Mr. Harrold," Easton interrupted, "Sir Gould."

Armin Harrold turned and shook Sir Gould's hand firmly. Despite his weakened appearance, his grip was strong and his air still authoritative.

"Sorry to hear of this vicious attack," Sir Gould offered sympathetically. "I am pleased to see that you are apparently well."

"Only through strength of will and fortitude am I standing here," Harrold announced dramatically. "I will not be so easily dispatched."

"And your wife? How is she?"

Harrold frowned, breathing deeply. "She is in emergency surgery as we speak. I am hopeful she will be out within the hour. They are focused on saving her arm."

Sir Gould paused, eyes darting between his patron and the bloody scene laid out before them. "Mr. Harrold," he said delicately, "I'm sure these men you've hired know what they're doing. If you want to be with your wife--"

"I am not a doctor and I am of no use at the hospital," Harrold interrupted, clearly not appreciating the insinuation. "The best thing I can do for Ruth is to find the monster responsible for this attack."

Armin Harrold currently served as President of the RhyDin Business Council, one of the many trade organizations representing businesses in the city. He was a very wealthy man, owner of many of the businesses in the nicer parts of town. Over the past year of his stewardship, member businesses of the RBC increased their profits collectively by over 100%. He was officious and pragmatic and had little time for sentiment. And he could afford to hire the best private investigators to determine just what tried to kill him and why.

And Sir Patrick Gould was the best of the best. As a professional game warden and hunter, he was frequently called upon to hunt and capture or kill dangerous beasts and monsters that threatened his clients. Over his career he had traveled across the multiverse, facing just about every dangerous entity known to man or God. His expertise was wild animals, often with magical properties, but he was capable of much more. He was a dangerous adversary to anything that preyed on humans.

"Very well, Mr. Harrold," Sir Gould said with a nod. "Tell me what happened."

"It was just past midnight. Ruth and I had just left a charity event and we were on our way back to my apartment. It was a nice night and Ruth wanted to walk, so we sent the car home."

"Do you typically travel with security?" Sir Gould asked.

"Yes, but there was an unrelated issue at my home. Some drunken loser broke in and my staff was in the process of capturing and detaining him."

This raised Sir Gould's hackles. "You're certain that this was unrelated? It's a terrible coincidence that you were not protected at the very moment you came under attack."

"I have my investigators looking into it," Harrold acknowledged, "but so far no sign of any link."

Sir Gould nodded. "Go on."

"Just as we were crossing the street we heard a terrible howl. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once and it raised the hair on the back of my neck."

"How would you describe this howl?" Sir Gould asked, not taking notes on a small pad.

Harrold shrugged. "I don't know that I could discern one howl from another. It was a howl."

"Go on."

"That's when it hit me. I don't know where it came from -- I only caught a glimpse of it before it set upon me. It struck me in the chest and I was knocked to the ground. Only later did I learn that it slashed me with its claws." He gestured towards the bandages on his chest which now showed signs that he was bleeding through them. "Oh Hell," he stated upon noticing the blood.

"You should return to the hospital at once," Sir Gould insisted.

"Not until we're done here, Sir Gould," Harrold answered.

"Go on."

"I was on the ground and I was stunned. I was aware of the creature attacking Ruth but I didn't really see it. It all happened so fast."

"And you didn't get a good look at this creature?"

Harrold shook his head. "The whole attack took place in less then ten seconds. Flashes of dark grey fur, giant claws, burning red eyes. That's all I remember."

"Go on," Sir Gould bid.

"That's it. Some drunken sailors came out of the Inn and the thing ran away. Saved Ruth's life."

"Were we able to get a description from these sailors?"

Elston shook his head. "They claimed to have only seen shapes and shadows. They were pretty drunk."

Sir Gould grumbled a bit. "As I recall it was clear as day last night. No clouds, bright moon. How is it no one saw anything?"

"It all happened very fast," Harrold repeated with some annoyance. "Whatever this creature was, it didn't stick around for pictures."

Sir Gould nodded. "Hopefully we can get something from the forensics. Residue from the wound, fur samples, something."

"Mr. Harrold's people have been instructed to forward the results of their tests to you," Elston advised. "You'll have the first reports this afternoon."

"Then I accept your contract per the terms given to me my your aide," Sir Gould stated formally, extending his hand, "and I will begin at once to find and destroy the beast that attacked you and your wife."

Harrold shook Sir Gould's hand. "Thank you, Sir Gould. Andrew will see to your every need. Best of luck to you."

Armin Harrold then flagged down his driver and announced that he would need to be taken back to the hospital. Sir Gould paused a moment to admire his focus.

"Is there anything else I can answer for you?" Elston asked as the two began walking away from the scene.

"I remain disturbed that no one was able to give me a description of this beast."

"It all happened very quickly," Elston parroted.

"So I heard. Hmm, what's this?"

A separate crowd was now gather in front of one of the shops nearby. The two men approached curiously as the shopkeeper seemed to be ranting and raving about something.

"Another attack?" Elston asked.

"Doesn't seem to be," Sir Gould answered.

They watched as the man, apparently the owner of a jewelry shop, decried the theft of what was apparently his most-treasured piece -- some kind of giant emerald. The display window at the front of the shop was clearly missing a centerpiece, but there was no other sign of the theft. No broken glass, no jimmied door. Security system apparently still active and intact. The shop keeper was screaming and gesticulating at his insurance adjuster, who stood meekly nearby absorbing the abuse.

Once Elston and Sir Gould were certain that this was not another animal attack, they continued on their way.

* * *

Jonas Drava crept into one of the barns at the circus. He was dressed in his typical attire - a white sleeveless t-shirt and worn jeans. He was covered in sweat and had been working hard at something all morning. Now on his break, he decided to steal away and check on his investment. He hoisted himself up to the second floor of the barn and crawled over to the far corner. Brushing aside a pile of hay, he revealed a bundle of cloth. He sat down on a nearby bale and set the bundle in his lap. Carefully he unwrapped the emerald, matching green eyes enthralled. For a few minutes he just sat there, looking at his accomplishment. It was one of the finest pieces he'd ever acquired. And although he enjoyed looking at it, he'd be even happier once it was fenced and replaced with cold cash. After sharing the money with the clan, as was tradition, he'd still have more than enough left over to help bankroll his simple needs. Possibly even a new life here, should he decide to stay -- and should he decide to underreport his earnings to his father.

He heard a sound and bolted into action, stuffing the emerald back into the bundle of cloth and burying it beneath the straw. He wasn't as quiet as he should have been and he paused, waiting to see if he was noticed.

"Who's here?" came a strange voice.

Jonas glanced over the edge of the balcony to see his best friend and comrade on the floor below. He was naked but covered in dirt and filth. His face looked wild and disoriented.

"Zoli!" Jonas exclaimed in a hushed voice. "Where have you been!?" He jumped down from the balcony to greet his friend, but Zoli flinched and backed off. "What is wrong with you?"

Zoli crouched down on the dirty floor, still appearing confused. He looked at his hands, then his feet, then up at Jonas. His face was momentarily anguished as he sought answers.

Jonas took a step forward and reached out a hand, but stopped short. He noticed that his friend was not just covered in mud. There was also dried blood. Blood on his arms, on his chest, and splattered on his face. Jonas instead took a step back. "Are you alright?" He asked. "What happened to you?" It didn't take long to understand that Zoli was not cut -- that the blood wasn't his.

"I don't remember ... anything," Zoli finally said. "Last night ... I don't remember."

"You didn't come to the great tent last night," Jonas explained slowly. "I covered for you and your absence was not noticed. Not even by your father."

Zoli sat down, crossing his feet beneath him. He stared at his hands, then up at Jonas, then back down. "I went into town. I wanted to see it at night."

"You look and smell like you spent the night rooting through garbage."

Zoli shook his head, and he looked up as face began to form a disconcerting sick smile. "Only the garbage of humanity, brother. I believe I finally experienced a taste of my true potential."

Jonas shook his head. "Don't talk like that. Let's get you cleaned up and presentable before your father goes berserk."

"I want to sit here for a while. Stay with me."

"There's no time for that. Now do as I say."

Zoli touched his hands together, feeling his own burning flesh. "As you wish, Jonas." A thoughtful pause. "I hope last night comes back to me because I believe I have so much to tell you."

[Jonas Drava]

The morning sun was just beginning to spread its light over the Circus – which was already slowly coming to life with activity. The Shepherd stood outside with his flock, a surly cow was giving its morning milk, and workers began filling the various water troughs scattered around the camp.

Inside a rickety old tool tool shed, Jonas was already well into his morning routine. Having completed a countryside run before dawn, he was now furiously boxing a punching bag — well, actually, an old canvas sack filled with sawdust. His strong hands were taped but the rapid strikes still sent pain shooting through his hands and arms — which showed bruises from days of relentless training and boxing. A cloud of dirt and sawdust surrounded him like an aura, catching the morning rays through the window.

Off to the side, Zoli sat on a three-legged stool and — in contrast to his large size and muscular build — was expertly sewing a patch onto a large canvas tent covering. His thick hands worked an over-sized needle carefully, pulling the thick sinew through each hold and binding the cloth together. He worked his craft adequately with minimal focus, despite the sweat dripping from his brow.

"…It was so intense," Jonas continued with his story. "I was going to lose that fight but somehow I started to predict his moves. I was able to watch his body language and see what he was going to do before he did it. I've never experienced anything like it before. Not here at the Circus and not in any of the fights I've ever participated in before."

"So you're starting to get the hang of it, brother," Zoli observed, not really paying attention to his stitches. "I was starting to worry that you were only good at boxing inanimate objects."

"You and me both," Jonas answered with a grim chuckle, eyes still locked on the hapless canvas target. "And I'm sure I still have a lot of losses ahead of me. But this one — this first victory — it was the best rush I've felt in years. The whole place erupted in cheers. At least - that's how it sounded to me."

Zoli laughed. "And did you celebrate? Perhaps with that 'coach' of yours?" He lightly sneered at his friend.

Jonas scoffed. "I did celebrate, yes. And Onyx was very proud of me."

"I bet she was." Zoli's voice dripped with sarcasm and lechery.

Jonas turned his head to give his friend a scowl while still punching unrelentingly at the bag. "It's not like that. Why does everything have to be dirty with you?"

Zoli rolled his eyes, now looking down at his sewing for the first time. "Why does everything have to be innocent with you? There's more to life than boxing."

"There's more to life than womanizing," Jonas retorted quickly. "Onyx and I are just friends - and barely that." He returned his attention to the bag. "She's using me because she wants to make money off of me. And I don't care because there's plenty of money to go around."

"So she must be quite ugly to be such an expert in boxing," Zoli joked.

"Actually…" Jonas thought a moment, hands still striking the bag "…she's very attractive. Right up your alley, really: physically fit but with a sultry confidence." Another pause. "But like I said, we're just friends."

"Ah yes, I forgot that you're only interested in the inexperienced farmer's daughters. Milk any cows lately?" Another inappropriate leer.

Jonas again turned towards his friend, now stopping his exercise. He glowered and almost snarled a bit. "Worry less about my private life and more about yours, shall we?"

"My life?" A laugh. "I'm just a simple seamstress, plain and true." He held up the thick needle to illustrate his point.

Jonas grabbed a towel and used it to clean the sweat and dirt from his face and bare chest. He was filthy from his morning workout, but this was a normal state for him.

"What's that, Zoli?" Jonas pressed. "Don't want to talk about where you've been every night this week? Because I've seen you in the town. Exploring. Spying on people. You've yet to come to The Outback to watch me box and I never see you in the Inn. So where are you always going?"

Zoli shrugged with mock innocence. "Just keeping an eye on my flock, brother. Nothing more."

Jonas narrowed his eyes. "They're going to catch you. Your father will–"

Jonas' warning was interrupted as the small door creaked open. Filling the entire frame stood Anatoly. He eyed the scene with clear disapproval before entering and appraising the haphazard state of the shed.

"Good morning, Mr. Dráva," Zoli bid respectfully.

Anatoly pushed his large form through the door frame, eyes still scanning between the two young men. "Several of the new lambs keep wandering off and the Shepherd needs help. Zoltán, please go assist at once," the elder commanded.

"Yes, sir." Zoli bolted upright and made his way out of the shed. He shut the door behind, leaving father and son alone. Jonas continued to towel himself off, trying to make himself look a bit more presentable.

Anatoly walked a circle around Jonas and his makeshift (and unauthorized) punching bag. His eyes were filled with disapproval and disappointment. In response, Jonas puffed himself up with pride and defiance. He was slightly shorter and much thinner than his father, but physically much more fit. He wore no shirt and modern jeans, whereas his father was clothed in cloaks and rags. Jonas' beard was relatively well-maintained and thinly-cropped, whereas Anatoly's was wild and hung down to his stomach. The contrast between the two men, here in this tiny shed, was striking.

"What do you have on your mind, father?" Jonas asked warily.

"Every night you leave us," Anatoly chastised sharply, the words hurled at his son and the punching bag like daggers. "You go into the city and you brawl and carouse like a sailor. For three weeks now you've defied my orders."

"Are you spying on me, father?" Jonas practically spat the accusation.

"I have many operatives working inside the city. They've reported back to me on what they've seen."

"I suppose Julia was the first to come to you about me."

Anatoly shook his head. "Your sister hasn't said a word. In fact I've caught her sneaking away too. Such a wonderful influence you are on her. Maybe you can teach her to brawl too, so that she breaks her hands and can no longer juggle."

Jonas squared his jaw defiantly. "I am not brawling, father, I am boxing. They have an organized league here with facilities and professional officiants and–"

"Do you know what else they have here, János?" Anatoly interrupted forcefully. "There are armies and police and wealthy lords with massive estates. Magicians and dragons and machines that act in their own self-interest. Animals that speak and think and humans that do neither."

Jonas smiled at every word, picturing RhyDin with just as much wonder as his father intended derision. "Yes, father. I know."

Anatoly took a step forward, getting into his son's face. His eyes were wide and cloudy and his lips curled into an angry frown. "The danger here is more present than anywhere we've ever been. Now is the time to be more cautious, not less."

"But I disagree, father. I disagree completely." The words flooded out of Jonas as if he'd been preparing for this argument for days. "Here we would be accepted. Here we are practically normal. Maybe even a bit underwhelming. These people see amazing things every day. Maybe this is the place where we can finally settle down."

"From literally the moment we got here we were accused of being thieves and scoundrels," Anatoly countered. "Since then we've been watched, spied on, and escorted. And business here has been bad. Where we normally have thousands of visitors in a day, here we are lucky to break one hundred. They reject us and spit on us and see us as less than them. It is worse here than anywhere else." Anatoly's voice turned from scolding to mocking. "And yet here you think we will be accepted. Treated as equals. Given a chance. No, János. Here we are treated badly just as in every other place. Here we are shunned and hated."

"I believe you are wrong, father. I believe you have not given this place a chance."

"I am responsible for the safety of this Circus," Anatoly admonished, his tone returning to a scold. "I am responsible for the health and well-being of dozens of our people. I will not risk them for the pipe dream of a safe settlement. I am content to keep us moving until the end of my days. It is the only way to protect my clan."

Jonas remained defiant. "That is your lot, father, but not mine. I want more than this nomadic life. The only joy I get in life is in boxing and I've found a place where it's a challenge." He paused, biting his lip before continuing. "Father, I won my first match last night. It was exhilarating. I've never felt so excited in my life. I've had a taste of it and I will never again be complete unless I can experience that feeling again. This is my calling, I know it. This is what I'm meant to do and providence has brought me to a place where I can succeed."

Anatoly shook his head as if dismissing a childhood fantasy. "Boxing. You'd rather pummel another man, and have him pummel you, instead of practicing your craft — your true calling? Are you out of your mind? You've clearly taken too many hits to the head, boy."

"My true calling? As your errand boy?"

"I will not debate this with you, János. Look at what you've done — I'm actually wishing you were just a rogue like Zoltán. I'd take that over your silly obsession any way."

Jonas narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists (bruised and taped though they were), fury welling up inside of him. If only his father had the slightest idea of how Zoli was actually spending his time lately.

"I forbid you from going back into that city without my direction," Anatoly continued as if reading a decree. "There will be no more of this boxing." He then produced a piece of paper from inside his cloak. "Now, the Foreman has discovered several major structural problems with the center tent. The pilings are deteriorating and they must all be repaired or replaced. It's going to be a very expensive job and it must be done soon."

Jonas was barely paying attention, still seething over being treated like a child. He began peeling the tape from his hands, giving himself something to focus on besides his father.

"The Foreman is currently preparing a plan of action and I am putting you in charge of securing the funding. I've had my best scouts in the city this past week and I have a list of all the supplies I need you to acquire." He offered over the list to Jonas, who was still glaring. "János, snap out of it."

Jonas looked down at the list — still in his father's hands — then back up at Anatoly. This chore represented everything he hated about life at the Circus and his father's timing was cosmic. Finally he took the list, giving it only a cursory glance. Mostly gold and jewels, sourced from across the city. Disgust and disappointment clouded his face.

"This is your calling, János. You are the best of all of us and we count on you. I count on you, son. Take care of this list and let me know once it is done. Then we can discuss other ways to make you find joy in this … 'nomadic life.'"

Jonas set the list down on a nearby table almost dismissively. He then began adjusting and tightening the bolts on the punching bag, now defying and ignoring the powerful presence of his father. Anatoly, satisfied that his work here was done, turned and left the shed, leaving the door ajar. Sunlight streamed in through the crack, cutting a line through the dust until it splayed over Jonas' form.

Jonas thought about last night's victory. About his various matches. He thought about Onyx and the other people he'd met here. He thought about Zoli and then about his father. And then, still inside of his head, he began making plans.

[Jonas Drava]

As was typical for a summer morning at the Circus, the young men of the labor pool worked hard on various construction and repair projects. Today, four of these men were repairing the wall of the serpent house — which was beginning to rot from years of water damage. One-by-one the boards were removed and replaced as the men worked to reconstruct an entire wall.

Jonas Drava was the Circus' most-skilled carpenter and lead the effort. A simple job like this he could do practically in his sleep — as he often did — dreaming of a more exciting life that he longed to know. He worked the manual wood saw, cutting various boards to precise specifications needed to replace various sections. Nearby, Zoltán Németh was expertly fitting the boards into place. Two other men were removing the old rotted boards — careful not to take out too much and collapse the wall on top of them. Nearby, the mysterious Serpent Master kept the various snakes and lizards busy so they wouldn't eat the construction crew alive.

Into this scene of routine activity came Emil Tobin. A boy of perhaps thirteen years, he was among the last of the children born at home before the Circus left forever. Jonas did not know the boy well, except that his brother Arthur looked up to him and often played games with him. The children of the Circus were all close and supported each other in this difficult, nomadic life.

Emil stood there a moment, shifting awkwardly as teenagers do. Eventually Jonas noticed him and halted his sawing.

"Good morning," Jonas bid with an exasperated smile. He was covered in sweat and sawdust and longed for his lunch break.

"Hello," Emil greeted meekly.

"Did you need something?" Jonas asked. It was not unusual for the children of the Circus to be used as messengers to and from various parts of the camp.

"Uh, can I talk to you for a minute?" He glanced around nervously.

Jonas sighed internally. For some reason the children of the clan, especially those around Emil's age, saw Jonas as someone to come to with their various questions and problems. He frequently had to settle disputes, dispense sage advice, and help fix toys and playground equipment. He didn't mind helping out but he was somewhat uncomfortable with the responsibility. His relationship with his own little brother ran somewhat hot and cold, and he had his own authority issues with his father and the elders. Perhaps that's why the children looked to him.

"If you're busy I can come back—" Emil blurted.

"No, no. It's about break time anyway." Jonas grabbed a towel and tried to clean some of the gunk off of his head and neck, gesturing toward a nearby stool.

Emil glanced furtively over at Zoli and the other workers then sat down on the stool, satisfied that they were out of earshot. Jonas hopped up on a makeshift workbench, legs dangling over the edge.

"What's up?"

Emil bit his lip. He was slouching and his whole demeanor was one of considerable discomfort. After a few seconds of silence, realization began to dawn on Jonas. He knew this look. Over the years he'd seen it several times from other children (mainly boys) of Emil's age.

"When did it happen?" Jonas asked, hushing his voice. "Last night in your sleep maybe?" He tried to be warm and comforting, but all he felt was creepy and weird.

Emil nodded. A look of guilt flashed over his face.

"You're what, thirteen?"

Another nod.

"Well I doubt there's anything I can tell you that you don't already know," Jonas said — immediately regretting the choice of words. "Uh, but I'm here if you want to talk."

This time no reaction.

Jonas pursed his lips. "Do you have a girlfriend? Maybe that girl Anna I see you playing with?"

That got a bit of a nervous smile out of Emil and Jonas grinned. "Yes? Anna?"

"We're just friends," Emil answered. There may have been more, Jonas wasn't sure.

"Well, it's good you have friends here. I know that life on the road can be hard for kids your age. I was a bit younger than you when we left home. I was exactly Artúr's age, actually."

"Do you miss it?" Emil asked. "Home?"

Jonas nodded. "All the time. Especially the little things, like having a garden and being able to walk into town every morning for coffee for father and a biscuit for me. I miss routine. It can be hard to keep one around here."

"I like Anna," Emil abruptly confessed. "I think she likes me too."

Jonas nodded. "My only advice is to take things slow. You have a lifetime to experience the world and all the wonders it has to offer. No need to rush."

Emil looked down at his hands, absorbing that sage bit of advice.

"So Saturday's going to be a big night for you," Jonas continued after a pause. Not the best way to broach the subject and he again internally chastised himself for not having more tact.

Emil looked back up again. Fear now flooded his face. The poor boy looked very small.

Jonas smiled reassuringly. "You're going to do fine. We've all been there. At least those of us between your age and mine. Look how I turned out?" Jonas laughed, but Emil still looked frightened.

Jonas also sensed that someone was now watching them, but he didn't dare turn and look and break the moment.

"Do I have to go through it?"

A serious nod. "The first time, yes. But that's it. Never again. Next month you'll get the shot and you'll never have to experience that horror again."

"I don't like needles," Emil warned.

Jonas shrugged. "You get used to it. After a while it's nothing. And then you get to be part of the circle during the monthly gatherings. No more being stuck off to the side with the kids. You get to sit around the fire with the adults and listen as we tell stories. Stories of the old days. It's a right of passage and it's kind of fun."

That got a reluctant smile from Emil.

"I won't lie to you," Jonas continued earnestly. "The cage is frightening. But your parents will be there and so will the elders. You won't be alone. That's what it means to be part of the Circus — never alone. Always looking out for each other. Tradition."

"I don't understand why I have to be locked up in a cage," Emil protested.

"Neither do I," Zoli added as he approached the two. "Emil, you're not an animal. There's nothing wrong with what you're becoming. You should be proud, not ashamed."

Jonas shot his friend a look. "Don't you start this again," he warned.

Zoli folded his arms over his chest. "How can you sit there and tell this boy he deserves to be medicated for the rest of his life? That he is some kind of cursed abomination? He's better than that. We all are."

Jonas turned back towards Emil, who once again looked frightened. "You should be in school right now, yes? Why don't you go back."

Emil nodded and stood up. His head swiveled between Jonas and Zoli until Jonas jumped down from the workbench and put a reassuring arm on his shoulder. "Go. It's okay. I'll come visit you Saturday night, okay?"

Emil nodded and then scurried out of the serpent house.

"Are you out of your mind?" Jonas aggressively chastised his best friend. "You just scared and confused that boy at a time when he is already having to deal with his changing body."

Zoli raised his arms, alternately pointing at Jonas and prodding himself in the chest. "I scared him? I'm not the one telling a thirteen-year-old boy that he's going to get locked in a cage on Saturday night and that he's going to have to spend the rest of his life getting stuck with a needle once a month in order to avoid becoming a 'monster.'"

"And what is your solution?" Jonas shot back. "Do nothing? Let him become a remorseless killer?"

Zoli stepped closer, lowering his voice and dropping the aggression but maintaining his energy. "Jonas I've spent the last month meeting with a mystic in the city. She believes she can help me control my body through magic and meditation."

"Magic," Jonas repeated, practically spitting in disgust. "And you discussed the curse with a stranger? You know that's against the rules. Your father will go ballistic on you."

Zoli waived a hand dismissively, clearly no longer concerned with the clan's rules. "It doesn't have to be like this," Zoli continued. "Doesn't have to be either-or. It can be better. Imagine if we could control the change. Invoke it at-will. We needn't be slaves to our bodies anymore, Jonas. We needn't always be on the run. We can live as we were meant to — in control of our bodies and superior to the lesser species out there."

Jonas reacted coldly. "I want no part in this, Zóltan. I know that you hurt someone last month. This time maybe you'll kill someone. You're not a killer and neither am I."

Zoli retreated a step, deflating a bit. "No one feels worse about what happened than I."

"And yet you're going to let it happen again on Saturday," Jonas pressed. "I know you haven't been taking the medicine. I know you're planning on sneaking away from the gathering again."

"I think I can control the change. I think I'm ready." Zoli spoke quickly, excitement welling up inside of him. "And if I'm right, I want you to join me."

"I want no part in this, Zoli," Jonas repeated, waiving his hand dismissively.

"Don't make that decision until after Saturday night, brother. You're my best friend. I need you to trust me. Take a chance on me."

For a long moment Jonas regarded his friend. The two men had spent nearly their entire lives together as comrades and equals. They grew up together, played together, worked together. Their fathers were the two of the most important men at the Circus.

"János. Talk to me."

"You're your own man, Zóltan. I'm not going to turn you in. But I won't help you and I won't lie for you."

Zoli nodded.

"And for now let's leave the kids out of it, shall we?" Jonas continued. "Let's not try to change decades of tradition overnight."

"Agreed."

"Just be careful, Zóltan. Don't get yourself killed." Then a slight grin. "You're the only sparring partner here that can keep up with me."

The grin was returned. "Thank you, János. And you'll see. Our nature doesn't have to be a curse anymore. You'll see."

[Jonas Drava]

As the sun set over the circus, the entire clan streamed from all sides and into the center tent — the largest structure on site. Normally the scene of death-defying hire-wire acts and feats of physical superiority, tonight it was a quiet, solemn atmosphere. Torches surrounded the interior space, casting an erie glow on the empty spectator seats. A powerful wind was tearing across the wilds, chilling the air and suggesting a coming storm. 

As the wind howled outside, the various people in the tent conversed in hushed tones about nothing in particular, yet on this particular Sunday evening a nervous energy permeated the air. This was more than just a periodic gathering of friends and co-workers. This was a ritual.

Jonas and Zoli stood to one side of the entrance, watching people file in. Their relationship had been strained the last few days, since their argument in the shed. Still they were best friends, and instinct drew them together this night.

"You're going to be with Emil?" Zoli asked.

Jonas nodded. "I promised I'd be there. I won't let him down."

"When it happens, make sure you look in his eyes, Janós. Make sure you ask yourself if we're doing the right thing."

Jonas turned and glared at his friend, only to be taken aback by his expression. The look on Zoli's face was not one of anger or hate. In fact he seemed strangely serene, despite being surrounded by a sea of anxiety. For a moment, instead of irritation, Jonas felt jealousy. How dare he be so in control? So at peace? Not this night. Not for one of them.

Jonas turned away, looking back at the center of the tent. The clan was beginning to form into circles. Typically there were four — one for each elder and a fourth for the children. The elders weren't here yet, because they were tending to Emil. In the old days the clan would form one large circle but over the years it became too large to manage so they split up into smaller groups. That decision made it easier to slip away…as Zoli intended this evening.

"You can still choose to come with me, János," Zoli offered. "When you're done with the boy, come see what I'm capable of. What we're all capable of." His tone was warm and giving. He truly wanted to share something miraculous with his friend.

Jonas merely shook his head. "Not tonight, Zoli. Not tonight."

"Very well. Time for me to go, then."

Zoli turned to sneak out of the tent but Jonas reached out and grabbed him by the arm. Zoli paused, looking back at his friend.

"Be careful, Zóltan."

"You too, János," he answered with a smile.

* * *

Holger Kelso was the top salesman at Bob's Tobacco & Bait Shop in RhyDin city. Which is to say he was the only salesman at Bob's Tobacco & Bait Shop in RhyDin City — other than Bob himself (who was rarely there during fishing season). 

Today was a particularly rough day for Holger because his wife's sister was half-way through a visit from out of town. Holger didn't like his wife's sister and the feeling was mutual. He imagined her spending most of the day yelling at his wife about how worthless he was, about how he didn't appreciate her, about how him hiring prostitutes was somehow disrespectful of her. Then when he got home she'd unload all of that torment back on him. Then he'd have to be nice on his sister-in-law while the whole time wishing she'd get hit by a flaming bus full of angry sharks. 

Today was day three of the current visit and after closing up the shop he decided to go out for a drink instead of home to the abuse. 

Like so many choices, it would not turn out to be his best. 

* * *

On the edge of the circus — as far away from the main tent as possible — stood a tiny wood shack. There was nothing else near this simple building and a visitor to the circus might not even notice it. 

Jonas stepped into the shack to find it quite crowded. The three circus elders were there, as were Emil's parents and the Shaman. In one corner of the building stood a sturdy iron cage, built into the wall and carefully secured to the floor and ceiling. Inside the cage stood Emil Tobin, the thirteen-year-old boy (now man), looking very small and very frightened.

"Thank you for coming, son," Anatoly bid warmly. "Emil has been asking for you."

Jonas sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the cage as the adults crowded in behind him. He smiled at the boy, trying to cut through his own nerves. 

"Hello, Emil. How are you tonight?"

Emil managed a meek smile. "I'm okay. It's cold in here." Emil was dressed in a very simple tunic and pants sewn together from old rags. The clothes did little to protect him from the elements and a coming storm had made the circus grounds quite cold. Emil was pale and was shivering. To Jonas he looked so alone in the large cage.

"Sixteen years ago I sat where you are sitting now, Emil," Jonas recounted evenly, "on the floor of this cabin inside that cage. At the time we were set up near a beach on a tropical island and it was warm. Yet as the sun set I felt a shiver through my bones that threatened to shake me apart."

"Were you scared?" Emil asked.

Jonas nodded. "Terrified. And I called out to my mother. She was still alive back then. And she sat down in front of me just as I sit here before you."

"What did she say?"

"She told me that I was still her son, and that the curse doesn't take away our ability to love each other. To be kind and trusting and loyal to each other. She told me that she loved me no matter what, was proud of me no matter what, and that she wouldn't let the curse take me away from her."

"Yeah?"

"And she told me that she'd be here when the morning came. That she wouldn't leave me alone."

"And she stayed?"

Jonas nodded. "When I woke up the next morning she was still sitting there. Hadn't moved from that spot, as far as I could tell. Seeing her there warmed my heart and I realized in that moment that she was right. I was still me. The curse hadn't changed me. That morning she cooked breakfast for me and it was the best her breakfast had ever tasted. Everything I did that day — everything we did as a family — was like the first time. Best day of my life."

Emil was now smiling broadly. In that moment he understood that life would go on, that the curse needn't doom him to some unspeakable terror. Yet despite Jonas' uplifting speech, he could could hear Emil's mother quietly sobbing behind him.

"Emil Tobin," Anatoly finally announced, convening the ceremony, "as you become a man, you also become a full member of our clan with all of the rights and responsibilities thereof. You will soon become a brother to every man, woman, and child who calls this place home."

"As a member of our clan," Viktor continued, "you earn our full protection. We will defend you with our lives and ask you to defend ours with yours. No one comes before the clan. No one sits in judgment over us. We take care of our own."

"And with these great rights come even greater responsibilities," Mihály concluded. "The law of the clan is absolute. You will follow our rules and keep our secrets with your dying breath."

How ironic, Jonas thought, that at this very moment Mihály's son was violating the clan's most sacred law.

At this point there was nothing more to do but to wait. No further words were spoken during this time except for a soft chanting by the Shaman. Jonas remained in place, giving Emil something to focus on as Emil tried to be brave. Jonas searched Emil's eyes, looking for answers as to whether he was doing the right thing. Whether this was humane. Whether Zoli was right to challenge the clan's handling of the curse.

Answers were not immediately forthcoming and there was no significant movement for nearly thirty minutes.

Then it happened.

Jonas knew the change was coming when Emil gasped. His eyes went wide. For a few seconds nothing, then he started to tremble. Then shake. Then the shudders begin ripping through him and contorting his body. He screamed out in pain and began writhing around on the floor of the cage. Emil's mother and father both cried out, clinging to each other for support. The elders and Jonas remained silent and focused. The Shaman's chanting increased in pitch and volume.

Emil's tremors lasted for maybe a minute, but it seemed like forever. Then he laid still on the floor for several seconds. Emil's father gasped.

After a pause, Emil suddenly lurched to his feet and stumbled backwards to the back of the cage. He looked at the assembled people but his eyes were wide and vacant, his expression tortured. Emil was gone.

Then the transformation came. Hair sprouted from every patch of skin, he hunched over and grew in size by at least twenty percent — his clothes falling away in tatters. His nose extended into a moist snout and his mouth into jaws featuring rows of razor-sharp teeth. Claws extended from his fingers and thick pads formed over his palms. The entire transformation took maybe fifteen seconds. 

No longer was there any sign of Emil, just a snarling and confused beast.

The beast threw itself forward at the cage, clawing at Jonas through the bars. Jonas was just the right distance away and did not flinch or move. Emil's parents continued to cry and wail but Jonas held it together. He needed to be strong for the boy.

The Shaman stopped his chanting and slipped out, his work finished. Satisfied that the transformation was complete and that Emil was in good hands, the elders also departed. Anatoly was last to go, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. 

"I'm proud of you, son," he professed. The words echoed the promise by his mother so many years earlier, yet the emotional background was different.

Jonas didn't feel proud anymore. He watched a thirteen-year-old boy turn into a monster and fail about like a homicidal maniac. The beast was tearing at the bars, searching for weakness, looking for any way to free himself and slaughter Jonas and his own parents. 

The bars held. Emil would be safe tonight. Tomorrow he would wake up and find that he is still a thirteen year-old-boy. Just one with a curse. 

* * *

Holger Kelso finished his third glass of stout and decided he had properly self-medicated for the evening and was ready to face the music. After paying his bar tab (and calculating the tip most-incorrectly), he stumbled out of the Red Dragon Inn. He decided to take the long way home and delay the inevitable, winding his way through a series of dark alleyways towards his urban apartment.

The wind whipped through the streets and rain was imminent. Holger was under-dressed for the weather and hugged the wall of the nearest building as he walked to shelter himself from the weather. 

He didn't make it far.

* * *

Sir Patrick Gould was not the first person to hear the screams, but he was the first person to correctly discern their location. For exactly one month now he had patrolled the city, not locating anything more dangerous than the occasional hellhound (domesticated, of course). In fact, he called up Armin Harrold this morning and reported that he was unable to discover the source of last month's animal attack and would give up after the conclusion of this weekend's patrols. Harrold, busy with his wife's rehabilitation, had no choice but to concede.

Tonight, however, Sir Patrick happened to be close to the site of the original attack when he heard such terrible screams. He knew immediately that his prey had struck again. He sprinted through the city streets and into a dark alley, calling Andrew Elston on his radio and breathlessly directing him to head over. 

Sir Patrick spotted the attack as he turned a corner. It was dark — very dark — and he knew his chances at hitting his target were not good. Still he felt a responsibility to stop the attack, and instantly his rifle was in his hands and he took the shot. 

The first bullet went wide and missed but the second grazed the beast in the thigh. The creature turned towards Sir Patrick and let out a ear-splitting howl which momentarily dazed the game warden. Before he could sight his next shot the beast darted between two buildings and was gone. It moved with incredible speed and the entire encounter lasted only a few seconds.

Sir Patrick raced forward to the scene of the attack but there was no sign of the beast. Despite the late hour and the poor weather, a crowd began to assemble. Elston pushed past the crowd and came up beside the warden. A flash of lightening lit up the sky and it began to rain.

"What happened?" Elston asked, panting.

"Your creature attacked again," Sir Patrick answered gravely. "I hit it but it got away."

Elston knelt down beside the corpse of the victim as the rain increased in strength. He recognized the man as an employee at the local tobacco shop where Harrold occasionally purchased his cigars. The man's throat was torn out and he was very nearly decapitated. His chest and upper-arms were mauled deeply and savagely. As Elston realized the horror of the scene he vomited into a pool of blood.

"Do be careful," Sir Patrick chastised. He was less mad at Elston and more mad at himself for missing the shot.

The crowd began to disperse due to the rain, which increased quickly in intensity. Grizzly murders were not uncommon in RhyDin and this one didn't seem all that spectacular to the untrained eye.

"Did you see it?" Elston asked. "Was this the same creature that attacked Mr. Harrold?"

"I did see it. Just long enough. And yes, I believe this was the same creature."

Elston stood back up, looking pale and weak. "What was it?"

Despite the rain soaking his clothes and skin, Sir Patrick felt dry and worn. "This was the work of a werewolf."