Peter G. Reynolds's Blog, page 2

PART TWENTY-FOUR

Ron's grassy bonds loosened slightly, allowing him to twist and look where the voice was coming from. His fellow shifters were not so lucky; their flora straight jackets continued to hold them tightly.

Standing at the entrance to the Hall, her once wet curls now a red, fiery tangle, was Mary. She was staring daggers at Gary, the only other person in the room not bound and helpless.

Gary, towering above her, his right claw still stained with Lycanon's blood, spoke politely but forcefully. "This is Conclave business, Mary. Now release my people."

Gary's words did nothing to soften Mary's mood as the long grass tightened further, eliciting groans from many of those lying beside him.

"Our agreement with the Conclave did not include killing within her walls."

Mary's emphasis on the word "not" drew more groans, including one from Ron, who could feel his ribs on the verge of snapping.

"This is a place of peace, a place of safety. We offer sanctuary to all those that seek it. Violence is forbidden!"

Several snaps could be heard throughout the Hall, accompanied by yelps of pain. Ron felt Mary’s rage, as surely as if it were his own. He cursed Gary, himself and his whole species for desecrating this sacred space. Others around him began cursing too, and Ron remembered how Mary’s laughter had infected the patrons at the restaurant. Perhaps her rage was infectious as well?

Gary smoothly shifted back into human form, his voice softening. "Muirenne. I meant no disrespect. You and this Inn, this Ósta Mór, have been an ally of the Conclave and the Faoladh for centuries. I hope you both know that in normal times I would never dream of desecrating this sacred sanctuary, but there's nothing normal about these times. It's not just the lives of myself and my brothers and sisters at stake here; the Harmony affects the lives of all the Children Beyond the Veil, be they sprite or spirit, fairy or Faoladh.

Ron couldn't believe what he was hearing. Until now, he'd only really half-believed what the twin sisters had told him; that werewolves weren't the only magical creatures, and the world was filled with miracles. But now? If what they said was true, then maybe the mistakes he'd made, the risk he put his brothers and sisters in, would all be worth it.

Not being privy to Ron's inner thoughts, Mary seemed less moved by Gary's words, though most in the Hall found it suddenly easier to breathe. Her shoulders relaxed, and she paused for several heartbeats before she spoke. Ron also felt the rage inside him dissipate, though the embers still lingered.

"These are indeed unusual times, my friend, but when can we truly say our time is anything but? We are Children Beyond the Veil. Fate is our reflection, prophesy our shadow. Our deaths have been foretold many times, yet we are still here. We have survived through war, the inquisition, industrial revolution and now the computer age. How is this Dead Wolf Prophesy any different?"

"Because." Gary said, holding Mary's gaze.

After several more heartbeats, it was clear Gary wasn't going to elaborate further, which irritated Ron. Apparently, though, this was enough for Mary. The grass suddenly released everyone, receding into the floorboards as quickly as it had appeared. Several dozen werewolves gasped, dispelling Ron's previous assertion.

Mary walked over to Ron, the other werewolves parting before her. They looked away, not meeting her gaze. Ron's nose ticked as the air filled with the scent of anger, mixed with respect and a dash of fear.

She helped Ron to his feet."Well, that was quite a lot of excitement."

"Yes," Ron answered, the rage he felt melting away like tired muscles in a hot bath. Her smile was still as big as he remembered, though he felt it was just for him. Behind those pale green eyes, he sensed something else, something darker.

"When all the grown-ups are done with their grown-up plans, come see me."

Ron nodded dumbly.

Releasing his hand, she walked to Gary as the crowd parted again.

#

As Ron watched Mary walk away, a firm hand gripped his shoulder.

"What was all that about Nephew?" asked Brian.

Clasping his Uncle's forearm in greeting, Ron ignored the question, countering with a smile, "It's good to see you, Uncle."

Ron was pleased his Uncle was there. He still felt sick from the events of just a few moments ago. It was hard to believe it had only been hours since he barely escaped his pursuer and only a few minutes since he entered the Hall. Now, a living legend was dead, killed by his brother in ritual combat, and the woman whose smile made his knees weak had incapacitated over fifty werewolves; the strongest, smartest, most cunning shifters of all thirteen clans - with nothing but an angry lawn.

It has been quite a morning.

Brian grabbed Ron around the shoulders in a half-bear hug. Both winced as their ribs protested the effort, not yet fully recovered from their recent turf war.

"This is a proud day for our clan, Nephew. Our Alpha has solidified his authority over the Thirteen and has done so with honour. We can now unite behind his leadership, fulfil the prophesy and save our people."

"And the other Children Beyond the Veil," Ron added.

"What?"

"The other Children,” repeated Ron. “The other magical creatures. We'll save them as well, right?"

Brian studied his nephew's face, his own a mask of seriousness. “What do you know of the Children Beyond the Veil?”

Ron wasn't used to this level of scrutiny from his Uncle. Brian had been a big part of his life since his father died two years ago, but their relationship was more like a fun uncle than an actual parent. Before this, the most challenging question he had asked Ron was how much ketchup he wanted on his poutine. And that was a trick question.

Seconds passed uncomfortably until Brian's mask cracked, a wide grin splitting it down the middle.

"Sorry, Nephew. I know you don’t know anything. Your father kept those facts from you. Well, I’m glad you know now.”

"Why didn’t he want me to know, Uncle? "

“He wanted to keep you safe. I think he thought of ignorance as a shield.”

Ron jerked his shoulder from his Uncle’s grasp and turned away, kicking the grassy floor. “How does being ignorant keep me safe? Why lie to me about the world?”

At his question, Ron noticed several ears perk up around him and rotate

in his direction. He cursed himself for speaking so openly. Like all members of Canis lupus, werewolves had eighteen muscles that control their ears but only four to control their mouths, or, in Ron's case, none.

Brian lowered his voice, “Your father knew from experience that too much knowledge can be dangerous Ron. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

His uncle then turned to look at Gary, who was still speaking with Mary.

"Again, let me thank you both for your hospitality fair Muirenne. I am humbled by your generosity, and I will do everything I can to respect your rules while we're here."

Brian leaned in close to Ron. "Have you noticed how your brother continues to say "I" and not "we"?

Ron nodded, unsure of the significance.

"He's taking responsibility for the actions here today. He's telling Mary if there are consequences, they should be shouldered by him alone."

Ron was surprised, "Isn't he taking a big risk? He can't guarantee what everyone will do here."

"Yes." Brian agreed. "But if he's responsible, he's also in charge. And for this mission to succeed, we need a leader everyone will follow."

PART TWENTY-THREE

"Strategy over strength, my sons. That is how we defeat our enemies."

Gary, Carl and Ron stood in an open field. Behind them, an old barn, its roof half collapsed, stood as the only witness. It had taken them over four hours to drive here. But this farm had two significant advantages; it was abandoned and remote. Two things you need when training young werewolves.

Their father was leaning against a rusty old tractor. As usual, he dressed in what was called a Canadian tuxedo. Jeans and denim jacket over a white t-shirt. But also, as usual, he looked uncomfortable. Liam, or Bill as everyone now called him, had come from the halls of academia in Ireland, where the air smelled of tweed and corduroy. His was a world of penny loafers and bow ties. Now it was a world of reflective vests and hard hats. Though he never let on how much he hated it, everyone who knew him could see it with every steel-toed step he took.

"Boys. We're here today to continue your training and, in your brother Ron's case, start it.

Bill took off his jean jacket, folded it over his arm and carefully laid it over the tractor's seat. He wore glasses, even though he didn't need to. Round and wire-rimmed, they gave his face a wise old owl appearance.

"Every opponent has a weakness. If it's not physical, it's mental."

"What if they only have weaknesses?" Asked Carl, sticking his thumb in Ron's direction.

"Or don't think they have any?" Countered Gary as he stared down his brother, who looked like the gym rat in his ever-present shorts and tight tank top.

Ron said nothing. He'd been able to avoid these training sessions until now. Shifting was difficult for him even on the fullest of moons - let alone during the day and under pressure. He didn't have Carl's strength or Gary's speed, but his father had said none of that would matter this time.

His father had recently become insistent that his boys learn all they could about strategy and combat. They debated ancient battle tactics over dinner and practiced wrestling holds in the basement. He even doubled up on history lessons, especially the Dead Wolf Prophesy. If he was preparing them for something specific, he never told Ron.

"Every opponent has a weakness," their father repeated. "If not physical, then mental. But, you must survive long enough to figure out what it is."

Bill crouched, pulling his jeans up around the knees as he did. "Carl. Let's see what you've learned."

Carl wasted no time, shifting as he ran towards his father. His heels snapped and stretched till he was running on the balls of his feet. His already muscular arms birthed even more muscles as they extended towards the ground. By his third step, he was fully transformed and looked ready to tear the former acoustics professor in half.

The sour odour of jealousy began to surround Ron as he marvelled at the ease with which his brother shifted.

Their father didn't shift and now stood three feet shorter and three hundred pounds lighter than his second eldest son. He just stood there, waiting for Carl's attack, which came in the form of a vicious clawed swipe, clearly intended to disembowel.

"No, Carl!" Shouted Ron. He knew Carl had a mean streak and didn't particularly like their father's strict rules, but this was only supposed to be training, not actual combat.

Gary put out his arm, restraining Ron. He said nothing and, as usual, was irritatingly calm.

At the last possible moment, their father ducked below Carl's arm. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned his body as he grabbed his son's arm and pulled. Off-balance, Carl continued over his father's right shoulder. Momentum did the rest.

Ron immediately recognized the move. It forced them to leave their home in Toronto five years ago.

Carl landed on his back but easily rolled to his feet. He then turned and swiped at his father, who only managed to avoid half the blow. Claws scratched Bill's chest, leaving three bloody lines across his once white t-shirt. Carl gave no quarter, spinning around and kicking viciously with his back legs. The elder Faoladh took the kick directly in the stomach, the force of the blow sending him twenty feet through the air. He landed heavily on the dry, untiled soil.

"Ippon-seoi-nage?" Carl asked his father, laughing. "Is that the lesson for today? Gary and I mastered one-arm-shoulder-throws before we were weaned. You'll have to do better than some silly Judo move to beat me, old man. "

Ron's father slowly rose to his feet. His shirt was now completely stained with blood. His breathing laboured.

"Letting your opponent catch his breath? I guess I've discovered your weakness after all, Carl, stupidity."

The smile fell from Carl's face, and his eyes narrowed. He hated being called stupid. Hated it. Ron knew it, as did everyone who knew Carl. When you're the biggest and the strongest, your intelligence is the only thing left to make fun of. When you're the biggest and the strongest and have a mean streak, those around you quickly learn not to do it. And those that did often didn't remember it.

"Stupid is thinking you can beat me, recovered or not," Carl growled, dropping to all fours and advancing on his father.

"Let the lesson begin," Ron's father said as his clothes tore and fell from his body, revealing the well-muscled form of a werewolf with a slight pot belly.

The elder Faoladh then looked down at the strips of cloth littering the ground and shook his head sadly, "I really loved those pants."

As Carl ran on all fours, Ron watched his father do something unexpected. Instead of moving backward or holding his ground, he advanced on his son at a full run, claws digging into the ground for traction. Even in werewolf form, their father was still significantly smaller than Carl. To Ron, it looked like a minivan playing chicken with a cement truck.

But the collision never came.

Inches away from one another, Ron's father shifted back to human form, his body easily sliding under his son. Then, repeating the move from a moment ago, he grabbed his son's arm and pulled. This time, however, the elder Faoladh shifted again, exploding beneath Carl in a detonation of fur, the magical force propelling the second eldest brother high in the air.

Gary looked at Ron. "Human fighting techniques will only take you so far if your opponent is too big or strong. But we are not human, even when in human form. Remember that, brother."

Carl landed hard against the rusty tractor, head first. The crunch of metal and bone made Ron wince. But the wince was soon replaced by a smirk as his brother slid to the ground, half-conscious. It was rare for Ron to see Carl be anything but perfect.

"Níl saoi gan locht" Gary said to his father.

"Exactly, Gary. Ron, do you know what that means?

Ron looked down at his brother, who was drooling into the hard-packed earth.

"Carl's never going to be a doctor? "

#

Blood poured from an angry gash in Gary's leg as he again barely avoided a killing blow from Lycanon.

Ron now knew exactly what his brother was doing. "Everyone has a weakness," their father had said. But so far, Gary had failed to find it. His fight with Lycanon was very different than Carl's fight with their father seven years ago. With over half a century of battle-tested experience, Lycanon didn't act rashly. His attacks were methodical, slowly weakening his opponent till he could deliver the killing blow. As far as Ron could see, he didn't have any physical weaknesses; he was strong, fast and perhaps most dangerous of all, patient.

Lycanon feinted with a right cross and connected with a left jab. Gary's stumbled backwards, his right eye swollen shut.

"I will take your head and present it at my beloved Hedistē's grave so she too can enjoy your defeat in the afterlife.

Suddenly, Ron had the answer. He forced his way into the circle surrounded by a wall of lupin flesh and knelt beside his brother.

"If not physical, then mental," he whispered into his brother's ear before getting pulled back into the crowd.

Lycanon raised himself to his full height, claws extending even further. Bending his knees, his legs tensed for a final assault.

Through bloody, cracked lips, Gary spoke.

"I've met your late wife, Hedistē Lycanon. Did you know that? She was a powerful and proud werewolf. She reminded me of the legendary Helen of Troy."

Ron could see the Lycanon's muscles visibly relax, his breathing slowing.

"Except she had a face to sink a thousand ships."

Eyes ready to pop out of his head, Lycanon let out a guttural scream and launched himself at Gary, all strategy and tactics replaced by blood lust. Gary, with the last of his energy, ran towards Lycanon. Then, like a batter running for home plate, he slid under the Living Legend, his hand running across Lycanon's belly.

Except it wasn't his hand. Gary had shifted mid-slide, and where once there were fingers, there were now four-inch claws. They sliced Lycanon from breastplate to belly button, spilling his guts on the grassy floor.

Werewolves don't gasp. But if they could, they would have at that moment. Lycanon turned around, his face a mask of confusion. He looked down at his wound, then to Gary, nodded solemnly, and collapsed to the floor.

Ron threw up.

#

Gary howled. It was a very special howl, reserved only for the most honoured dead, those closest to you who helped shape who you are. Gary had howled this way only once before, for his mother.

The significance of this gesture was not lost on the gathered clans, who one by one added their own howls to the chorus. Each was slightly different, yet together they formed the most incredible harmony. Many of those gathered were brought to tears.

"Lycanon fought bravely," Gary said, standing over the now-dead legend. "He honoured his clan. He honoured his brothers, his sisters, and his beloved Hedistē."

Gary reached down and, with two razor-sharp claws, snipped a lock of hair from Lycanon's body and held it high.

"For Hermes, messenger of the gods, to lead you to the River Styx."

Four men stepped forward, their bodies similarly tattooed with Greek letters and symbols. They bowed to Gary, clearly moved by his knowledge of their traditions. They accepted the lock of hair and raised Lycanon's body to their shoulders.

Gary closed his eyes and bowed his head. "May he and his beloved be reunited in the fields of Elysium."

A sound caught Ron's attention from the far end of the hall. It was music, coming from just beyond the mist. It was faint, but Ron could just make out the sober song of stringed instruments and pipes.

The men of Lycanon's clan carried him slowly toward the sound, their steps in rhythm to the music. Ron could swear he saw green fields, but eventually, the mist engulfed them, and all was quiet once more.

Ron turned to greet his brother in victory but found he suddenly couldn't move. His legs wouldn't obey him. He then heard others struggling too.

"I can't move!" said one.

"Neither can I," said another.

Ron looked down. To his horror, the grass that poked up through the floorboards had grown considerably and now had weaved their way halfway up his legs, holding him tightly. It was the same for everybody around him, who struggled in vain to free themselves.

"Gary! What's happening?" Ron shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the panicked howls of werewolves around him. They shifted, trying to tear the grass out with brute strength or slice it with their claws, but the grass grew even faster with every cut or tug, grabbing their hands as they tried to free themselves.

In seconds, everyone was held tightly. Some were brought to their knees, others to their stomachs. All were helpless.

Lying on the ground, looking like an eco-friendly mummy, Ron struggled unsuccessfully against his bonds. Then, he heard a voice behind him echoing through the hall. It was loud, angry and familiar.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Shall I continue? Let me know in the comments. Your feedback is always welcome.

PART TWENTY-TWO

"Watch out, Gary!"

The first punch landed squarely in Gary's stomach, doubling him over. The second connected with his jaw, practically lifting him off his feet. Gary stumbled back but kept his balance.

His attacker circled, fists raised. The smile on his face told everyone watching he had no plans to make this quick; he wanted to make Gary suffer.

Gary raised his own fists in front of his face defensively, but it did little to stop another vicious right hand, then a left. The blows propelled Gary's own fists into his face.

His attacker laughed, "Why are you hitting yourself, Gary?"

Punch. "Stop hitting yourself."

Punch. "Stop hitting yourself."

Gary stepped in for a punch of his own and was rewarded with a jab to his nose. At nearly twice his height, his opponent had too great a reach.

Gary went down to one knee and spit out a thick wad of saliva mixed with blood. The gathered crowd laughed, egging on the one-sided fight.

"Stop it, Stevie!" Ron cried. He struggled to get to his brother but was held tight by two older boys, who gripped his arms tightly.

Stevie ignored Ron and advanced on Gary. A big kid with greasy unwashed hair and ill-fitting clothes, Stevie was two grades ahead of Gary but had also been held back once. Ten-year-old Gary looked tiny by comparison.

A kick from Stevie's shoe sent a cloud of gritty, schoolyard sand into Gary's face, who sputtered and rubbed his eyes. Wasting no time, Stevie landed another blow that sent Gary to the ground, tearing his jeans.

"Not so tough now, eh? "Stevie asked (the question directed more to the group of 7th graders surrounding them).

Stevie was your stereotypical bully; mean, angry and jealous. His name-calling wasn't even that original, keeping to the classics about weight, eyesight or perceived sexual orientation. From his clothes, you could tell his family didn't have much, and from the bruises, love was also in short supply. Ron could almost feel sorry for him if he wasn't such a dick.

Typically, interactions with Stevie resulted in a single punch, followed by crying, followed by laughing. Punch. Cry. Laugh. That was the unspoken contract of the kids at Ron's school. Stevie got to feel strong; you got to feel humiliated.

But that day at lunch, Gary had different plans.

Ron, Gary and Carl had been living in Toronto for six months. Their father got a job working with their Uncle Brian in construction. It was a well-paying job that was also under the radar. Ron always thought it must have been difficult for his father, who had a Ph.D in acoustical engineering. He had even been a professor at Trinity College in Dublin before the Conclave forced him and his clan into hiding. Now, all he could do was manual labour jobs, paid in cash, to put food on the table.

Gary and Carl were finding the adjustment difficult. At 5, Ron didn't remember much of their life in the country. Life in the big city, with their postage stamp garden, was all he knew. His brothers had spent most of their childhood barely wearing clothes, running endlessly on the family farm. Now there were rules. Endless rules on how to walk, talk, dress and most importantly, how to live among the crush of millions of humans and not be discovered.

This was why Gary was taking a beating. To win was to be noticed and recognized as exceptional, which was the one thing he couldn't do. None of them could.

Surprisingly, Stevie never picked on their brother Carl. Ron guessed, like sharks, bullies recognized their own and stayed clear of one another.

Stevie liked to express himself in colourful language and did so particularly vibrantly as Gary rose to one knee, coins spilling out of the rip in his pocket onto the sandy ground. Stevie picked them up greedily.

As always, it was about money. Stevie liked to say he was protecting us from bigger bullies, not that anyone ever saw them. Usually, Gary would simply hand over what his mom had given him to buy lunch at the school cafeteria, but today was different. Today was Ron's first day of school, and Stevie wanted two donations. Gary refused.

"Next time, when I tell you to pay, you pay." Stevie said as he meticulously picked up every nickel and dime. "I'm not doing this for free."

Gary brushed the dirt away from his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's what your mother said."

Ron didn't know what that meant, but it did two things: It immediately redirected the seventh graders' laughter from Gary to Stevie, and, perhaps more importantly, it sent Stevie into a blind rage. He lunged at Gary wildly. Gary, however, didn't duck or flinch. Instead, he just calmly turned his body and grabbed Stevie's arm. Momentum carried Stevie over Gary, who stood up and effortlessly flipped Stevie over his shoulder. He landed on his back, air knocked out of him in an audible woosh. Then, and Ron was never sure it was calculated or the result of adrenaline, Gary, still holding Stevie's arm, pulled down in the opposite direction, snapping it at the elbow.

Crack!

The other boys immediately released Ron. One even threw up. Then they ran in all directions, leaving Stevie screaming in the dirt.

Two other things happened that day. Stevie never bothered another student, and Ron's first day became his last as his family packed their things and moved.

#

The meeting hall was silent as Lycanon slowly circled Gary. Those in attendance had spread out to form a circle around them. Gary was frighteningly calm. Growing up, it was as if all the fear had gone to Ron and all the anger to Carl. With his clean-cut good looks, Gary never raised his voice and overreacted. He couldn't have been any cooler under pressure if he'd been chiselled from a block of ice.

Lycanon, by contrast, was a tangle of white fury. His body had scars, a testament to how many battles he'd fought. As a rule, werewolves healed all but the most catastrophic injuries between shifts. The magical energies that powered their transformation also dramatically increased their powers of regeneration. Lycanon's visible scars told a story with many unhappy endings - for his enemies.

"Shift, you coward!" Screamed Lycanon, beating the grassy floor with his enormous hands. Ritual combat between Alphas required both combatants to fight as full Faoladh. Anything else was considered dishonourable.

Gary didn't shift, but the opinion of the crowd did. Ron could smell it.

Emotions have a distinctive odour, and as Gary stood his ground, the rancid smell of mistrust was slowly being overpowered by the heady scent of respect and admiration.

Lycanon leaped forward, swinging his right arm, then his left. "I'll make you shift," he growled.

Gary avoided the first swing, quickly sidestepping to the right, but not the second. It caught him square in the stomach, the force lifting him off the floor. He landed hard but managed to roll to his feet, arms coming up defensively above his head.

Lycanon continued to circle, fangs bared in a lupine smile. Ron noted he had hit his brother with a closed fist, not slashed him with his claws, which would have cut Gary in half. No. It was plain to everyone the Living Legend had no intention of making this quick. He wanted his prey to suffer.

And suffer Gary did, as blows from Lycanon rained down on him. Not enough to kill, but enough to hurt, a lot.

"Nothing to say?" Growled Lycanon as another blow came down on Gary's shoulder, snapping it at the collar bone. "You who so easily use words like "coward," yet won't even defend yourself."

Gary collapsed to his knees, his left arm hanging limp at his side. Lycanon lifted his knee and tried to stomp him, but Gary rolled out of the way just in time.

To Ron, it looked like a cat playing with a mouse. Until it didn't.

Gary was taking a lot of punishment, but he was also starting to avoid more blows than he took. Ron recognized what he was doing. Through blood, broken bones and unimaginable pain, he was studying his opponent, looking for weaknesses. Something their father had taught them.

PART TWENTY-ONE

Ron's hunch was apparently correct, as the way to the meeting chamber was much faster and easier than he remembered. The hallway even seemed to slope slightly downward. In no time, he found himself at the enormous oak tree-shaped door, its branches ending in carvings of the thirteen clan insignias.

The events of the last two days replayed in Ron's mind. Meeting the sisters, his fight in the park, running from that hooded woman. It almost seemed like it happened to someone else. Before this trip, the most magical thing that had happened to him was finding a double yoke while making scrambled eggs. Now, the world was filled with banshees, vampires, magical chalices, and B&B’s with jealous streaks. And though he knew he would be in big trouble for disappearing during such a critical time, it would be a relief to tell someone what had happened.

Ron took a deep breath and reached for the handle, but before turning it, the door suddenly opened, the speed betraying the opener's strength. Four men, each more than a head taller than Ron, with long braided beards and broad shoulders covered in ceremonial bearskins, stormed out and down the hallway. Ron barely avoided being trampled. One of the men scratched the wall as he walked, his nails extending into two-inch claws with a sickening pop.

Not a good idea, thought Ron. And, as if on cue, the man tripped and fell flat on his face, hard. Ron figured they'd probably chalk it up to the man's clumsiness or perhaps an unseen fold in the carpet. But he knew better.

The cavernous room looked and felt just as Ron remembered it, wrong. Once again, he knew he was inside the Scratch & Sniff Inn, but the thick grass beneath his feet, the sound of birds overhead and the thick swirling mist where walls should be were unsettling. Half his senses were lying to him; he just didn't know which half.

The scene before him was chaos. The room was filled with clan members from around the world. Ron had never seen so many werewolves in one place, except maybe at his own family bbq. But uncle Neil and his Hawaiian shirt or aunt Sally and her endless stories about ways to cook venison were nowhere in sight. Instead, Ron was surrounded by the strongest and most cunning members of the thirteen clans.

And they weren't happy.

Of course, Ron had heard the phrase "tension so thick you could cut it with a knife," but he never understood it until now. Everyone was on their feet; the Treeble had retracted its branches and absorbed them into its trunk. The floor was littered with thick glass beer steins which had failed to shatter on the thick, mossy grass. Fists were clenched, teeth were barred, muscled clenched, and Ron could see veins popping on more than a few necks.

Ron was about to turn and leave when his brother Gary suddenly appeared from a large group of Alphas that had been loudly arguing. Ron could now see there had been a fight. His uncle Brian struggled to hold back his cousin Kira, who, though tiny compared to those around her, looked like she would gladly take on everyone in the room at once.

Gary stood up on the trunk of the Treeble and addressed the room. His nose was broken, blood smearing his left cheek and staining his beard.

His brother seemed different somehow, Ron noticed. Stronger, his voice more commanding. Ron couldn't take his eyes off him, nor did he want to. This was the power of the Alpha, he realized. To command his pack's total respect and obedience with merely a glance. It was also something his brother didn't waste on game night and family barbecues.

"My family." He began, to the scoffs of many in attendance. "Yes, you are all my family. And we have many names. "My el lobizon brothers from Brazil, the mighty Volsunga of Norway, the proud Wendigo."

Gary leapt gracefully to the floor and walked around the room, clasping the shoulders of strangers who were ready to tear each other's throats out mere moments ago. He named each of them, by name and clan, in their own language without a hint of an accent. Ron could see it impressed many, who began uncrossing their arms and listening to what his brother had to say.

"The Conclave has kept us safe from mankind for centuries. But it has also divided us to the point where we don't even recognize ourselves as brothers.

Ron saw some heads nodding but just as many shaking. The room was still deeply divided.

"But we ARE brothers AND sisters," Gary continued, glancing at Kira, who solemnly placed her first to her chest and bowed her head.

"We can only survive if we work together. There can be no more mistrust, no more rivalry, no more secrets!"

At that last word, Ron could see tensions rise again, and several hushed conversations broke out between clans. A man from the group Gary had just come from stepped forward. He was older, his hair having migrated to his chin years ago, but it seemed his body hadn't gotten the memo as muscles pressed against clothes. His right hand was stained with blood. Eyes like daggers, he slowly sucked the blood from his knuckles while staring directly at Gary. His voice was deep and scared when he spoke, with the strain of a hundred battle cries.

"Flagitium hominis. How dare you speak of secrets? It was your father and his secrets that caused all this!"

Ron was speechless, not just for the words spoken but for the man who spoke them. Standing there, not ten feet from him, was a living legend, Lycanon - the direct descendant of King Lycanon, the tyrant king of Acadia over two thousand years ago. Ron knew the myth well. The Greek god Zeus visited Lycanon's palace disguised as a mortal man. To test whether he was a man or an all-knowing god, the King tried to serve Zeus a meal of human flesh. Enraged by the King's treachery, Zeus turned the King and all his sons into werewolves.

Lycanon continued, "The Conclave agreed to let you lead this mission because you had knowledge they didn't. Knowledge you wouldn't fully reveal until after we were all here. Now we learn your father, the traitor, visited the sacred Source nearly twenty years ago and that his blasphemy has doomed us all!"

Gary stared calmly back at Lycanon and said nothing. This seems to enrage the living legend even more. Eyes bulging, he violently pushed through the crowd of shapeshifters to stand face-to-face with Gary. His teeth were bared, and spittle showered those closest to him as he spoke.

"The Veil is a sacred place. The Source is a holy vessel. To defile it is to seek the wrath of the Gods. We must make a pilgrimage, beg forgiveness, offer gifts and perform the ancient sacrifices. Not sneak in like rats."

Lycanon turned to the crowd, which now hung on his every word.

"Many of you know I lost my own beloved this winter. She was a powerful Shaman, but to me, she was simply Hedistē, my most delightful. She also studied this Dead Wolf Prophesy, and do you know what she discovered? That dead doesn't mean physical death; it means the death of the soul. It is the wolf whose spirit has been corrupted by the ideas of men that will bring about our doom."

"That's a lie!" Shouted someone Ron couldn't see. It sounded like uncle Brian.

Lycanon ignored the interruption and pointed at Gary, his finger rock-steady despite his agitated state. "Look human, act human." Those are the words this man, yes man, has lived by. The words of his blasphemous father. They are not the words of Lupinotuum. They are not our words. He has lived as a human so long he has forgotten how the grass feels beneath our paws, how a fresh kill tastes between our jaws. And how to live and die by werewolf laws."

Ron felt increasingly uncomfortable. He could feel support for his brother slipping away with each new attack from Lycanon. Any more of this, and he and his cousins would be lucky to leave the Inn alive.

Lycanon pointed to Ron's cousin Kira. "Do you want to follow a man who would bring a female on such a sacred mission?"

"NO!" Shouted many in the crowd.

Lycanon's finger scanned the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea before Ron.

"Do you want to follow a man who would trust a whimpering, cowardly, Shiftless loser with the fate of your families?

"YES?" Shouted Ron, though his words were drowned out by a chorus of "no's" around him.

Lycanon raised his arms, quieting the crowd for what was most likely the climax of a well-prepared speech, but his words were cut short by a slap to the face by Gary.

The slap wasn't particularly hard, but that made it even worse. It was a slap powered not by by anger, hatred or even fear but by contempt and pity.

"You are the coward Lycanon," Gary said. His voice was quiet, his words simple, yet somehow they conveyed even more authority than Lycanon's bombast.

"You're afraid of change. You and all the leaders of the Conclave. You're afraid of losing your grip on power, so you hide behind words like tradition, ceremony, custom, and ritual. Those words should be the spices that enrich our lives, not the nails that blind us to the inequities and injustices of the past."

Gary reached out and grabbed Kira's shoulder, who had moved between him and Lycanon. "Yes, this warrior is indeed female, but it's not for me to tell you she is worthy of your respect. Kira doesn't need my approval or yours. She proves it to herself every day with her actions. She's twice the Faoladh you'll ever be.

Lycanon spit on the ground at that. Ron could see he could barely contain himself as he spoke. "If it wasn't for the covenant we made with these sacred meeting grounds, I would kill you where you stand."

Gary laughed. "There he goes again. The coward. Hiding behind words. If you think you can kill me, coward, then kill me. Otherwise, your idle threats cut as deep as a cub's teeth on his mother's breast."

The world seemed to slow as Lycanon shifted in an explosion of white fur, bone and muscle. He was even bigger than Carl, which Ron didn't think possible. His jaw dislocated as four-inch fangs erupted from his mouth. His clothes were torn away, revealing runes and letters of the Greek alphabet tattooed across his chest.

Carl stepped in front of Gary, who still stood calmly, making no move to shift. "Don't dirty your hands with usurper brother. I'll kill him for you."

"No. I'll do it, "said Brian, moving in front of Carl."

"It would be my honour if you chose me." Countered Kira, stepping in front of Brian. "I'll make him eat his tongue for the foul words they spread."

Ron considered stepping in front of Kira, but she was all the way on the other side of the room.

Gary shook his head. "No, my friends. This is a battle I must fight. It is the Faoladh way. Words alone won't convince our brothers to follow me. They need to be written in the blood of victory."

He turned to Lycanon. "Kill me. If you can."

PART TWENTY

Ron quickly closed the door of the Inn and leaned heavily against it, ready for the person chasing him to break it down. He tried to catch his breath. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure anyone looking at him would see it beating out of his chest like a cartoon rabbit in love.

Ten seconds went by. Then a minute. But the door didn't move. The knob offering not so much as a jiggle.

Ron was unconvinced. Darkness was beginning to cloud the edge of his vision, but he managed to grab a solid-looking wood chair and prop it under the doorknob. Still nothing.

The windows of the Inn were covered in delicate lace curtains embroidered with flowers. Kneeling down, he pushed them aside and peaked into the street, hoping and not hoping to catch a glimpse of his pursuer.

There was no sign of his shadow, but there was also no sign of… the street. Outside the window, Ron could see a large grassy field surrounded by mature trees and an impressive stone building in the distance.

"That's the Waterford Courthouse." Said a familiar voice. Ron turned and saw Mary standing a few feet away, surrounded by dogs, cats and birds. They'd been so quiet he hadn't even noticed them.

"The what? "Was all Ron could manage.

Mary smiled. "The Courthouse. She's trying to tell you you're safe."

"Safe?" Ron repeated, recognizing his answers were getting shorter.

"Yes." Replied Mary. "Now tell me, where have you been? I've been worried sick."

Ron wanted to reply, but the floor suddenly looked very cozy, and he promptly told it so with his face.

#

"You're my hero Ron," said Kay, planting a wet kiss on Ron's right cheek. "Thank you for saving us from those terrible men at the bar."

"No, you're MY hero Ron," said May, planting an equally wet kiss on Ron's left cheek. "You're going to save the Children of Veil."

"He's mine!" Hissed Kay. Stealing another kiss.

"You had your chance," growled May. I'm your favourite, right Ron?

"You're both wrong," said Mary, planting one on Ron's lips. “I'm his favourite.”

"Liar." May & Kay said in unison. "Tell her, Ron."

"Tell me what, Ron?" Mary asked.

"Ron?"

#

"Ron?"

Ron smiled as he opened his eyes, only to come face to face with two dogs vigorously licking his face.

Standing above him was Mary, her look of concern betrayed by a smirk taking up residence in the corner of her mouth.

"Ron! I'm so glad you're awake. You had me worried."

Although Ron knew you couldn't die from embarrassment, he wished he could at that moment. He sat up quickly, wiping the layers of slobber from his face and unceremoniously shoeing away his four-legged fans.

He was in a cozy, second-floor bedroom. Ron guessed it must be Mary's. The floor was covered in flowers that seemed to be growing up through the floorboards. They snaked their way across the walls and ceiling, eventually spilling out a large window. A gentle breeze brought the smell of roses, clover and lilac, a scent Ron remembered well from their first encounter.

Mary pointed to the edge of the bed. "There are some fresh clothes for you and soap and hot water on the nightstand. Get cleaned up and meet me downstairs."

She left but paused briefly before closing the door. "And don't think I'm letting you off the hook, my silly boy. I want to hear everything!"

Ron looked down to see a white cotton shirt and jeans laid out on the bed like a flat person. The jeans spilled over the edge, ending at a pair of sneakers stuffed with socks.

As promised, there was soap and a basin of hot water on the nightstand. Ron stripped off his clothes and washed the adventure of the last two days off him. Somehow, the basin always remained full and warm, and any water Ron splashed on the floor was quickly soaked up by thirsty flowers.

As he washed and dressed, Ron noticed two Siamese cats staring at him from a high bookshelf. He was pretty sure they were judging him.

"I know. I know." Ron said to them, not expecting a reply. "I screwed up, and now I have to explain it to Gary, Carl, Bria, Kira… oh Gods!"

Ron eyed the open window, a plan forming in his mind. It began with a second-story leap and ended with him working as a Hungarian coal miner named Tibor. He looked back at his two judges.

"Don't look at me like that. I wasn't going to do it… Anyway, I'm claustrophobic.

#

The view outside the window was strange. It wasn't the quaint cobblestone alley where Ron and his brother Carl had first encountered the Scratch & Sniff Inn. He was looking out over a large park dotted with trees and surrounded by a low stone fence. At one end stood the building Mary called The Waterford Courthouse, an imposing structure with six stone columns in the front.

What had Mary said? Ron thought. The Inn was protecting me? He thought it funny, considering how she had hidden from him when he needed rescuing. But now, it seemed she was using that same trick to hide from Ron's pursuer. He had no idea how she was doing it, but as long as it kept his shadow away, he didn't need to know.

The clothes fit nicely. They weren't precisely Ron's style, but he was happy to be rid of his Girl Power hoodie. He rolled up his sleeves to just past his elbows, slipped on the sneakers and opened the door. Without invitation, the two cats scrambled out of the room in a blur of fur and judgement. Ron followed.

Whatever jealousy issues the Inn had with Ron seemed to still linger as he had trouble finding Mary. Long hallways doubled back on themselves and ended in stairs that always seemed to be going up.

Eventually, the Inn relented, and Ron found Mary in the kitchen, surrounded by a mountain of empty platters. The only sign they had once contained food were piles of bones, picked clean. Ron could smell all four food groups, chicken, beef, pork and venison.

Mary looked distraught. "She's protesting all the meat."

"Who's protesting?" Ron asked, realizing the answer before he'd finished asking.

Mary rolled her eyes. "She knows how important this meeting is, so she'll put up with having it here. But she's making me clean the dishes."

Mary was indeed elbow-deep in soapy water. One hand held a half-submerged dish, the other an oversized scrub brush. Soap bubbles were popping all around her. Ron didn’t think her hair could get any curlier, but right now she looked like a soggy dandelion.

Ron thought it made sense the Inn wouldn't like animals being eaten inside her. (No, that didn't sound right at all. Under her roof? Better). She loved strays, including, it seemed, naive seventeen-year-old werewolves. Mary said the Inn was a protector. Killing animals for any reason would be a terrible betrayal of that title.

But this mission was critical. And the Inn's willingness to have meat eaten within her walls was proof of that. Plus, since speaking with the sisters, Ron knew it wasn't just the lives of werewolves at stake; it was the lives of all creatures Beyond the Veil.

"Help?" Mary asked, as much with her eyes as with her voice. Ron was tempted. He felt good around Mary and wanted to please her. But he had to face his brother and warn him about all he'd discovered. Plus, he had a hunch the Inn wanted Mary to do this alone.

"Sorry. I've got to go see my brother."

Mary said nothing and turned back to her dishes. He'd have preferred one of Carl's childhood beatings to her silence. Without another word, he left the kitchen.

PART NINETEEN

Molly, or MoMo as the family affectionally called her, was young for a werewolf when she died. Her unknown condition caused violent spasms of the mind and body. Near the end, she would thrash about, speaking gibberish, unable to recognize those around her. Ron did not like to think of those final days.

He sat on the bed. The rest of the room was filled with mostly empty bookshelves. His aunt Maeve had taken over the duties of medicine woman and had taken his mother's books, scrolls, crystals and potions. Only a few items remained, including a well-worn copy of Canis Compendium, Fifth Edition, and a jar of loose Marsh Mallow Root tea. Ron shivered when he saw the tea. His mother had him drink it daily to cure his inability to shift, but the only thing it did was leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Ron fell back onto the mattress, raising a cloud of dust in the air, which danced and sparkled in the afternoon light.

What am I going to do, mum? Everyone hates me. What should I do?

"She always did have all the answers." Said a deep voice.

Ron turned away from the voice and closed his eyes. He nuzzled against his mother's pillow, the faint scent of vanilla and lilac still detectable by his lupine senses.

"These are difficult times, son," said the voice. "And your mother always thrived in difficult times."

The voice drew closer, and Ron could feel the mattress compress beside him.

"She raised you to thrive in those times too, Ronnie."

Ron reluctantly turned to face the voice. The man sitting beside him was older, the grey in his hair and beard having conquered the fiery red long ago, though some pockets of resistance remained. He was shorter than Ron's brother Carl but barrel-chested, with forearms like tree trunks and hands big enough to crush a grapefruit, though Ron was reasonably sure they had crushed more than citrus in their time.

"I can't do it, Uncle Brian. What if someone dies? What if I die?" Ron reached over and picked up a frame from the nightstand. A woman with long silver hair was standing beneath a forest of tall pine trees. In one arm, she cradled a baby, the other lay across the neck of an enormous black wolf, who seemed to be smiling for the camera.

"Why would he pick me? And don't say I'm asking the wrong question."

"You're asking the wrong question." Said Brian, his lips curling into a smile.

"I told you not to say that," complained Ron, his voice sounding like the child he still wanted to be.

"Ronnie. Your brother chose me for a reason. He chose your brother Carl and your cousin Liam for a reason. And, like it or not, he chose you for a reason as well. But it doesn't matter why we were chosen or what others think of that choice. What matters is how we honour that choice and live up to the standards our Alpha has set for us.

Ron ran his finger slowly across the framed picture.

"What if I can't live up to them?" Ron asked, turning to face his uncle.

"The standards?" Asked Brian. Taking the photo from Ron's hand.

"Yeah." Answered Ron sheepishly. "The standards."

Brian put his arm around Ron.

"Ronnie. Ron. This is an opportunity to be defined by your actions rather than others' expectations. You may not think you're ready, but Gary does. And for what it's worth, so do I."

Ron leaned into his uncle's embrace. He hadn't been hugged in years and realized just how much he missed it.

"It doesn't make sense, Uncle."

Brian squeezed a little tighter. "You'll find a lot of things in life don't make sense. But it's often because we're not asking the right questions.

Ron rolled his eyes. "That again? Now you're just talking in riddles."

"It's called wisdom, my boy. Which is often a riddle to the unwise. Now run."

"What?" Ron asked, confused.

But Ron’s confusion quickly passed when he saw the hulking form of his brother standing in the doorway. His eyes looking particularly murderous.

"Grr..RONNIE!”

Brian smiled. "Take the window, and be quick, or you might not be alive to worry about dying. Run!"

#

Run.

Ron's arms and legs pumped as the floors of the office tower flew by. Six… Seven… Eight…

Crash. Far below, the sound of a door coming off its hinges and the rapid approach of footsteps. First floor… Now second…

Where did the Inn go? It doesn't make sense.

It doesn't make sense. Ron had said those words before, and what his uncle had told him after.

"You'll find a lot of things in life don't make sense. But it's often because we're not asking the right questions.

The revelation hit Ron like a thunderbolt. I'm not asking the right question. It's not; where did the Inn go? It's why can't I find it?

Ron trusted his senses. For a Faoladh, they were everything. The Inn was there; it hadn't moved. He just couldn't find it. Why?

Hard footfalls from below were getting closer. Fifth floor…Sixth floor… Ron's shadow was gaining.

Ron thought back to what he knew of the Inn. According to Mary, it was ancient and alive. It had been protecting people on the Emerald Isle for as long as anyone could remember.

So why hide from me now? Was it scared? No. What did an Inn have to be scared of other than lousy Yelp reviews?

Ron tried to remember more of what Mary said. She’d been so kind to him, before he overreacted. She listened, really listened, and cared about what he had to say. Ron pictured her face, so warm and happy, the sound of her voice, how she smelled...

Wait a minute.

Ron suddenly remember something else Mary said on their way to the café.

“I don’t want her to get jealous.”

That couldn’t be that? Could it? The Inn was jealous?

The words sounded ludicrous in Ron’s head. Yes, he liked Mary right from the start, and she seemed to like him. But that didn’t mean anything, did it? Ron wasn’t exactly an expert when it came to girls. The closest he’d come to kissing one was a cheek kiss “hello” from his cousin Aoife, which turned into a full smacker when he turned his head at the wrong moment. But the less said about that the better.

Maybe they’ve been together for centuries, and here I come... Oh Gods.

It was crazy, but right now it was all Ron had to go on. Opening the door to the roof, the sun blinded him momentarily. The unnatural fog didn't rise this high, and he could see church steeples rising above the mist like a fairytale city in the clouds. Ron quickly found the fire escape and began climbing down.

Above him, Ron could hear the sound of his pursuer. He quickened his pace and reached the cobblestone streets.

"Mary and I are just friends!” he said aloud. He felt incredibly foolish, talking to the air. The fire escape then shuddered beside him, and he began to run again. Shouting as he did.

"I’m sorry if I upset you!"

Left at the Court House.

"You’re a really lovely Inn.”

A right a Pink's Cantina.

"I’ll leave you a five-star review.”

Left at the busy cafe; another at the Viking-themed gift shop…

"Please forgive me.”

And there it was, the bright red door, the second-floor window overflowing with flowers and the most beautiful sign Ron had ever seen, The Scratch & Sniff Inn.

Ron slid to a stop, the soles of his shoes all but gone, and quickly went inside.

PART EIGHTEEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 18

No red door. No carved sign. No second-floor window overflowing with flowers.

Ron circled the block, his pursuer a heartbeat behind him. He knew this was the right place; his nose told him so.

What's going on? It should be there.

Left at a flower stall, another at a busy outdoor cafe, and a third at a Viking-themed gift shop brought Ron again to the misty, cobblestone street of the Scratch & Sniff Inn. But as he made the final turn sharply, his left shoulder scraping against rough-hewn stone, he could still see no sign of what he knew should be there.

"Hey! Watch where you're going."

The voice was followed by a crash, and Ron dared a quick glance behind him. His shadow had collided with a short man, his fiery hair perfectly matching his current mood.

"Ya goddam gobshite. This ain't the M50!"

But the man's words fell on deaf ears as Ron's shadow stood up and continued her pursuit, ignoring the contents of what the man was carrying, which were now strewn across the street.

Ron now had a slight head start and had every intention of taking advantage of it. Going back to the dock was out of the question. He knew the fishing trawler they arrived in had a tight schedule and would have left already.

May and…. her sister. That seemed to Ron like his best bet, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where in town they lived. He was pretty sure it was North of the river, but then again….

With some distance between them, Ron turned a corner and entered the first door he came to. He cursed as the door rang a small bell that hung above it.

"Welcome to NoteWorthy," said a cheerful, lilting voice from behind a glass counter. Ron ignored the voice and focused on dodging between the vast collection of used musical instruments he found himself surrounded by. He just made it to the back door before hearing the bell ring again.

The door led to an alley where Ron surprised three teenagers, who tried looking as nonchalantly as possible as smoke slowly rose from behind their backs.

The first two doors he came to were locked; the third was propped open with a brick, a thick stench of bleach coming from within. Entering, Ron kicked the brick away, and the door closed behind him with a satisfying click. He stopped and listened. Nothing. He put his ear to the door. Nothing.

Then the shouts of children, followed by the rattle of the doorknob inches below Ron's ear. He stumbled back, startled, then turned and ran down a long hallway. He was in an office building of some kind. The mosaic-tiled floors were slippery from recent mopping, and Ron found himself half running, half sliding as he made his way to the stairwell. As he climbed three steps at a time, muscle memory took over decision-making, giving him time to think.

He was beyond exhausted, having given everything he had to reach the Inn before his shadow caught him. His clothes were plastered to his body, sweat coming from places Ron didn't know he had. His arms and legs were on autopilot, but he could still feel them burning, each flight of stairs bringing a new level of torment.

Where is that Inn?

The question repeated over and over in Ron's mind. But he had no answer. It didn't make sense, but this whole trip hadn't made sense since the moment he was chosen.

#

"You're asking the wrong question."

Ron hadn't expected that answer from his brother, who stood in front of the family barbecue, surrounded by smoke and waves of heat that floated in the air.

"I don't understand."

Gary flipped the steaks on the grill with a practiced hand, tongs moving like a conductor's baton.

"The question isn't why I want you to come."

Ron coughed as the wind pushed the smoke directly into his face. He stepped to the left, but the smoke seemed to follow him, burning his eyes.

"Of course, it is." Argued Ron. He tried moving to the right, but the smoke seemed to anticipate his movements. "There are so many others here that would be a better choice."

With his head, Ron motioned to the crowd behind him. Aunts, uncles and cousins were spread out across the backyard. Some were holding beers, others plastic glasses of wine. Most balanced flimsy plastic plates on their laps, piled high with very un-werewolf-like dishes, including corn on the cob, zucchini casserole and an unending variety of salads.

The annual family BBQ. It was a ridiculous ritual, considering all they really wanted were the blue-rare steaks cooking on the grill or, better yet, a fresh kill from the cow they came from. Still, their father had insisted they do it every year. Even five years after his death, his edict of Look Human. Act Human. was still the law, and Gary, as the new Alpha, clearly had no intention of changing it.

Ron walked away from his brother, knowing he wasn't going to change his mind. He was going to Ireland, and that was that. The heat from the grill was replaced by the tempers of his family, whose stares followed him as he made his way to the buffet table. They hated him for being chosen to help fulfil the prophecy. They already barely tolerated a "shiftless loser" being a member of their family. Ron knew he'd probably be the one roasting on that grill if it wasn't for Gary.

The Conclave was the governing body of all werewolf clans around the world. Ron knew almost nothing about them except for two things. It was they who banished his clan nearly twenty years ago, forcing his family into hiding, and it was they who his brother had recently brokered an uneasy peace with.

The recent deaths of clan medicine women and the lack of live births in over a year had forced the Conclave to ask for help. Ron's family was the foremost authority on the Dead Wolf Prophecy, which foretold these signs as warnings of a coming apocalypse.

The Conclave had decreed five members of each of the thirteen clans would travel to Ireland to investigate. Sixty-Five was a symbolic number for the Faoladh, appearing throughout the clan's shared history. It was also decided that any more would be too conspicuous. The problem was that with so few spots, every able-bodied male wanted to be selected. Many clans held contests. The Livonian Clan of Northern Latvia had males swim out into the frigid waters of the Baltic Sea, the last four to return to shore, securing their spot. The Skin Walker Clan of the Navajo performed ancient rituals to determine who among them was the purist of spirit. And the Wulvers of Shetland played a particularly ferocious game of Rock Paper Scissors.

For Ron's clan however, there were no puzzles, no contests of endurance, no fights to the death, only choices made by Gary, their clan Alpha. The first was obvious; Carl was not only the second oldest; he was the biggest, strongest and most capable of any clan member. Next was Ron's uncle Brian, a man whose advanced years did not betray his strength or cunning. He had been Ron's father's advisor for decades and continued to council Gary.

Gary’s third choice should have been the most controversial. Kira, Ron’s cousin, was female, which normally would have automatically disqualified her. The Conclave was an unyielding patriarchy, and had systematically, through tradition, superstition and even force, kept the power of the clans in the hands of males for centuries. Even though females had the strongest connection with the Veil, and in fact were the only ones able to effectively use its energy, they were not considered warriors, and therefore not entitled to any say in clan affairs.

Ron’s father Sam though, thought differently. As Alpha, his decisions were made based on merit, not sex, which frequently put him at odds with the Conclave. When their clan was expelled, Sam tasked Kira to travel the world in secret, reporting back on the activities of the other clans. As a female, she was mostly ignored and able to hide in plain sight, making her an effective spy. It was still however, hazardous work, and her face showed the scars of many close encounters. Though those she encountered weren’t so lucky. Gary believed as his father believed and had chosen Kira without hesitation.

But it was Gary's final choice that would cause the most controversy and surprising. Particularly for Ron.

"I need you, brother." Gary had said early that day as Ron's cousins unfolded colourful lawn chairs and set up tables in the garden.

"Yes," Ron replied without hesitation. "I've created a great playlist on Spotify. I figure we start with a little Marley, then shift to some Beach Boys…."

"No." His brother said solemnly, placing a hand on Ron's shoulder. "I need you to come with us."

"Of course." Replied Ron. Awkwardly placing his own hand on his brother's shoulder. "Is it a beer run? Or do we need more nachos and salsa? I warned Sally we needed more…."

Ron had known what his brother really meant; he just didn't want to believe it. He had been raised on stories of the prophesy, how the Dead Wolf would rise and bring his clan glory. He had dreamed of standing beside his brothers, soaked in the light of the blood moon. But you don't get called a loser your whole life without starting to believe some of it, and at seventeen, Ron was a true believer. He tried reasoning with Gary that there were better warriors, better strategists than him, but Gary's decision was unshakable.

You're asking the wrong question. What does that even mean?

Ron angrily piled coleslaw and scalloped potatoes onto his plate. He knew precisely why he shouldn't go. He'd screw it up somehow. He'd get someone killed, and if he was lucky, maybe that person would just be himself.

A hard slap on the shoulder made Ron reassess that last thought.

"Don't be so glum, brother," said Carl with a hearty laugh. His massive frame was stuffed into a pair of tan cargo shorts and a white golf shirt. "If it makes you feel better, I told Gary I thought you were the worst choice for this mission as well."

"Thanks?" Ron winced, his shoulder stinging from his brother's greeting.

Carl looked at the vegetarian offerings on the table and made a face, though it was difficult to see behind his beard, which, like his long tangle of hair, was the colour of dirty straw.

"You look like a Viking forced to go to private school," Ron said loudly, his mood making him braver than he should be. Others standing nearby laughed, including several children.

"Well, I…." Carl stumbled. He wasn't used to being the object of ridicule.

Ron took his plate of food and quickly went inside, kicking off his sandals beforehand. When you're nearly seven feet tall, insults are rare. They're rarer still when they come from your shiftless half-brother. Ron knew Carl's embarrassment would soon turn to anger, and when that happened, he wanted to be as far away from him as possible.

Sliding glass doors led to a bright sunroom. Ron ignored the glares and whispers of even more relatives and made his way upstairs. His mother's bedroom was at the end of the hall. He looked down at his bare feet. Though she's been gone for almost a year now, Ron still found it impossible to wear shoes in the house.

The door opened with a slight creak. The room hadn't been touched since his mother died. Her double bed was still surrounded by safely rails to prevent falling, and a large metal triangle, which his mom would hold to help her sit up, hung over the mattress. The room was musty, and Ron opened a window. He knew every inch of this room. He still visited it almost daily.

PART SEVENTEEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 17

The girls had told him no one would remember what happened at the park, but he needed to see it. If he was being honest, he still didn't fully believe it. He followed Covent Hill to Hennessy Road, his stomach turning as he passed a restaurant named Za! The smell bringing back memories of too much pizza from just an hour ago. Dairy had never sat well with him, but he wasn't about to complain. The only thing worse than being Shiftless was being a lactose-intolerant Shiftless.

Wise Park, its name carved in stone at the fenced entrance, was tucked between a series of nondescript row houses and a construction site. It was empty and unremarkable. The morning rain had washed away any footprints. The only sign of the fight Kay had described was a broken tree about eight inches in diameter and the faint, lingering scent of fear and rage.

"Why can't I remember!" Ron said aloud, his only audience two shy Siamese cats quietly patrolling along the fence. He had really hoped coming here would spark some kind of memory. In truth, not because he might have hurt someone or that his secret had been revealed to the world, but because the fight Kay described sounded awesome. Like from a movie. That was the werewolf Ron always wished he was.

"It's over here," said a voice. Ron froze as he saw shapes approaching through the trees. He pushed his way through a gap in the fence and hid behind a particularly foul-smelling dumpster. From this vantage point, he could see there were three of them, all wearing matching grey rain ponchos. The ponchos' hoods were pulled over their heads, obscuring their faces in shadow.

They searched the area Ron had been standing in a moment ago, taking grass, earth and bark samples, the latter scraped off with what looked like an ornamental knife. One collected the samples and placed them in a red case, which opened like a fisherman's tackle box.

Ron stepped back, wanting to be anywhere by here right now, and knocked over a recycling bin full of glass bottles. The three looked up in unison. One of them immediately began moving toward the dumpster, ornamental knife in hand. Ron wanted to run, but it was like his legs had grown roots and wouldn't move. The stranger grew closer, and Ron could just make out something shiny around their neck, something that sparkled even in the din of the fog-covered street.

"I know you're there." Said a female voice carved from what Ron could only imagine was a lifetime of smoking. "Come out."

Ron closed his eyes, only to open them again at the sound of another recycling bin falling. One of the Siamese cats had knocked it over and was now purring at the legs of his would-be assailant.

"It's just a cat." The woman said, walking back to her companions. Ron's heart returned from its vacation in his throat.

"That was close," he said under his breath.

The woman turned around suddenly and looked directly at Ron. "He's here!" she shouted, moving toward the dumpster at a full run. Ron somehow tore his legs from their roots and began running himself, down John's Lane to New Street, past the Apple Market to Spring Garden Alley. Ron found his stride by the second block, and his pace quickened significantly. He passed Catherine Street, then Waterside, not daring to look back until he was sure he'd lost his pursuer. It wasn't until he approached a sign labelled "John's River" that he slowed his pace and dared a quick look over his shoulder.

The woman was right behind him, her footfalls silent on the concrete road. She reached out and grabbed his hoodie, yanking it back. Ron instinctively raised his arms above his head, like a lazy child getting undressed at the end of a long day, twisting around as the hoodie came up and over his head. The woman cursed, and Ron, now bare-chested, continued to run, his speed fuelled by sheer terror.

Got to find help. Ron thought between breaths. He'd never run this fast. If there was something he was good at, it was running, but every time he glanced over his shoulder, his shadow was just inches away. He first thought about returning to May and Kay's, but he couldn't quite remember their address, though he was sure it would come to him later.

The Inn. I've got to get back to the Inn!

The city again became a blur as he ran, the fog swirling around him. People turned and watched as he passed; some even shouted encouragement, cheering the race they imagined he must be competing in.

The Waterford Marina, the Court House, Pink's Cantina; he was getting closer. His legs burned, and he was drenched in sweat, but surprisingly, as life or death escapes go, Ron felt fantastic. Only a couple of blocks to go, and he'd be safe. The thought pushed him to run even faster, burning through every last bit of energy.

Why me? Ron asked himself as he zig-zagged between parked cars, tourists and couples pushing strollers. Why are they chasing me? Was it because of what I did in the park, or did someone not want me to talk to Gary?

The answer didn't matter, as the Inn was just around the corner. Ron put on one final burst of speed, turning down the narrow cobblestone street to the Scratch and Sniff Inn.

Only it wasn't there.

PART SIXTEEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 16

In the span of eight slices of pizza, Ron learned more about the world than he had in all his seventeen years.

Beyond the Veil was a place filled with all manner of magical creatures. Thousands of years ago, many had travelled to this world to live among humans. They were the origin of the world's folklore and fairytales, from the Chinese Fènghuáng, who gave rise to tales of the immortal Phoenix, to the Jötunn ice giants of old Norse mythology. They helped shape the culture of humanity, living in peace with one another, including the Faoladh, until something changed.

"You decided to kill us," Kay said, curled up once again on the couch. Ron could smell the bitterness on her breath.

May gave her sister a dirty look. "Stop it. We don't know that for sure." She was indeed wearing Ron's shirt, though he didn't know why. It was torn in so many places it seemed to be holding itself together only by the sheer will of three brave buttons.

"Naïve much, sister? How do you explain what's happening then?

The sisters glared at one another, and Ron got the impression this was an ancient argument. When no one spoke, he filled the silence with a question.

"How are we killing you?"

May spoke first, cutting off Kay mid-inhale, who then retreated to the endless scroll of her phone.

"There's an energy that sustains us, Ron," May explained, neatly brushing pizza crumbs from her pajamas into an empty box. "It allows us to live beyond the Veil. We call it The Harmony. It's like music, a note for each of us, feeding our souls. But twenty years ago, the song changed, and magical creatures worldwide started dying. Some who had lived for centuries died immediately; others simply could no longer have children."

"But that's what's happening to us!" Ron shouted, slapping his hands on the couch. He immediately realized he'd said too much and tried unsuccessfully to will the words back into his mouth.

No wonder his brother didn't trust him.

"We know Ron. That's why the thirteen clans are here. To try and fix something you did twenty years ago."

"What did we do?" Ron asked

"Tried to kill us," said the voice behind the screen.

Mary sighed, her body seemingly weighed down by Kay's statement.

"We don't know for sure, Ron. Nobody does. But whatever it was, it disturbed The Harmony. And if it's not restored, none of us will survive.

As he sat across from two girls he met only last night, the truth he had known his whole life rubbed away like sleep from morning eyes. He was finally awake, yet a small part of him wished he could roll over and enjoy the ignorant slumber of yesterday.

Words have power. Ron's mother had taught him that. Now he had that power, given to him by two strangers, but what was he going to do with it?

#

As he left their apartment, Ron's anxiety returned almost immediately. His mind racing with everything that had happened to him since last night. It was strange; everything made sense when he was around those two. He felt powerful and safe like there was no problem he couldn't handle. Now, all he could think about was what Gary would say.

He's going to be pissed.

The streets were quiet as Ron made his way back to the Inn, his nose acting like Google Maps. As he breathed, the city unfolded before him like a pop-up book of three-dimensional smells. A fish market to the South, a bakery to the East, McDonald's… no, Burger King to the West.

He shivered. The warm afternoon sun had failed to penetrate the thick fog that still covered the city, and Ron could see his breath. His clothes weren't helping much either, all donated by May and Kay. A faded pink hoodie with the words Girl Power embroidered on the back, baggy track pants and an oversized pair of running shoes. Ron was sure Kay had simply stolen the pants and shoes from an overweight neighbour's balcony. Still, he hadn't been in a position to complain.

Like the air around him, Ron's thoughts were clouded and filled with questions. He didn't know what was more unsettling, that magical creatures existed or that his family had been lying to him about it.

Gary's going to be pissed.

The thought persisted, and Ron slowed his pace. His brother was bound to suspect something had happened to him yesterday and that one of the other clans was responsible. They'd probably been out all night looking for him.

Ron made a sharp turn down an alley. His nose told him it was in the wrong direction, but he didn't care. He wasn't looking forward to his brother's inevitable use of words like useless and irresponsible. Plus, he should probably check out that park where, as Kay put it, he went all furry hulk. There were still six days left till the Blue Moon, plenty of time to save the world.

PART FIFTEEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 15

Mary motioned Ron to follow her to the dining room table. "This is a singing chalice; Children Beyond the Veil use it to communicate, or to learn things about the world."

"Children Beyond the Veil?" Ron asked.

May's expression went from exasperation to amusement in less than a heartbeat.

"Ok. Ok. I'll play your game, Mister. She said, smiling. "Children Beyond of the Veil. Magical creatures, like yourself, who centuries ago came to this world from beyond - you guessed it, the Veil.

Ron nodded knowingly, even though he had no idea what she was talking about. He'd never heard of his kind being called Children Beyond the Veil. Faoladh, yes. Lycan and Werewolf, sure, but never that.

Mary wet her finger and began circling the rim of the chalice with it. It played a single note and began to vibrate. She then leaned forward and whispered, "Kay." Immediately the liquid started to swirl and change colour. Ron saw colours coalescing into cloudy shapes and finally sharpening into an image. It was Kay, standing on the street in her pajamas, arguing with a man on a bicycle holding a series of pizza boxes.

"Magic," Ron said under his breath. He reached out and touched the chalice. The pressure of fingers stopped the vibrations, and the image disappeared, the liquid within becoming clear.

"Pretty cool, huh?" May asked, still smiling. "It's not as reliable as a smartphone, but the data plan is waaay cheaper.

"So you're shifters too," Ron said. It was half statement, half question.

"Well, no," May said someone sheepishly. "We're…"

"May! "Kay said sternly, cutting off her sister. She stood by the open front door, arms full of pizza boxes. Ron didn't need to inhale deeply to know there were two meat-lovers with extra cheese and two vegetarian with cauliflower crust. "He doesn't know."

"Doesn't know what?" May and Ron said in unison.

"Anything," Kay answered, putting the pizzas down on the counter.

"Ron," Kay asked. "Name another magical creature other than werewolves."

Ron was thrown by the question. He knew the correct answer, but it was so obvious, he didn't know if this was a test or something. Before he could answer, May said what he was thinking.

"I don't understand."

"Sister," Kay said, shaking her head, "he thinks werewolves are the only magical creatures that exist.

They both looked at Ron, who suddenly felt like he was sitting inside a Petrie dish.

"Well, aren't they? Ron asked.

#

Ron had grown up hearing stories of the Veil, that place of great power that gave the Faoladh their strength. He also knew about magic, though he’d never seen it in action. Just stories of clan soothsayers healing the sick or communing with each other over great distances. But for all he didn't know, there was one thing he was sure about: there were humans, and there were werewolves. Everything else was something out of a storybook.

Ron mentally corrected himself. Yes, Mary had told him about the Inn and how it was "alive," but wasn't that just magic as well? It hardly meant that dwarfs and ogres were real or that you'd find a leprechaun guarding his pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

"Ron," Mary asked, her eyes wide with concern. "Did your family never speak of the other children? Of mischievous sprites and playful Selkies?

Ron shook his head.

"Fairies?" Kay asked.

"Banshees?" May asked.

"Just a sec." Ron interrupted. Are you trying to tell me that magical creatures are real? Like vampires or dragons?

Both May and Kay laughed in harmony.

"Don't be ridiculous Ron," admonished May. "Dragons don't exist."

"Thank god," Ron sighed.

"And we haven't seen a vampire in forever, right May?"

"Yes." Replied May, "Not since… Oh, what was his name?"

"Vlad!" They both said in unison, dissolving into giggles.

Ron was stunned. He wasn't so naive that he automatically believed everything the two sisters said, but it smelled truthful. Bald-faced lies had a distinct odour to them, and he could smell none of that here. There were faint aromas of guile with notes of pepperoni…Err…evasion, so he'd have to be wary.

Ron stood up and opened the door to the balcony. The air was wet and fresh and felt good on his face. "Even if all stories are true, it still doesn't explain what you want from me."

May and Kay joined Ron at the balcony entrance. A gentle fog lay like a blanket over the city.

"We know why you've come to Waterford," May said, "We know that the women of your clans can no longer have children."

"And we know what you're going to do to fix it," continued Kay, "but it will kill everyone else."

Ron looked incredulous. "Kill every… No way. They wouldn't do that". But Ron's words rang hollow in his ears. While his people weren't cruel, Ron knew they'd do whatever it took to save themselves.

"We need you to talk to your people," May said, interrupting Ron's train of thought, "especially to your Alpha, to tell him there's a better way."

Now it was Ron’s turn to laugh. "Me? Even if I had any idea what you're talking about, which I don't, why would they listen to me? I'm nothing, a Shiftless; they'd never listen to me.”

"You’re not Shiftless, Ron," May said. "Last night proved that. You just needed the proper…."

"Stimulation," Kay said, finishing May's sentence. "And we don't need you to convince them, just get them to agree to talk with us."

"Talk?" Ron asked, his eyebrow arching in surprise.

May nodded. "Talk,"

Ron and May both looked at Kay.

Kay looked incredulous "What, we all have to say it? Fine. Talk."

This is crazy, thought Ron, but he knew he couldn't have it both ways. You either grab the brass ring or continue to ride the merry-go-round. He didn't really know if that was the right saying, but it sounded good.

"Ok. I'll try." He said at last. "But I need one more question answered first."

"Anything, Ron," May said.

Ron looked at May, "Are you wearing my shirt?"