Peter G. Reynolds's Blog, page 3

PART FOURTEEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 14

Look human, act human, be human.

The words rang in Ron's head. Words his father had said every morning at breakfast and his brother Gary continued to say after their father's death. Part maxim, part prayer, those words protected his family - from other clans and the world. It was their shield.

His father would always tell him that the world wasn't ready for their kind; humans think we're mythical, like witches, vampires, or dragons; and we need it to stay that way.

Ron remembered the stories his father would tell him in bed, about a time when werewolves were not only free but celebrated for their strength, cunning and honour. A time before man rose up against them, and they were forced to hide their true nature.

Ron smiled, not because of the stories but the storyteller. His father was an affectionate man, always understanding, with seemingly endless patience —when they were alone. But in the presence of his siblings, his father was Alpha, a difficult, if sometimes terrifying, taskmaster that Ron could never impress. Storytime was their time, the only time they were simply father and son. Ron treasured those memories.

Papa, why do the other clans hate us? Ron had asked his father one evening when he was five, his glow-in-the-dark bedsheets lying loosely around him.

His father had thought for a moment before answering, tucking Ron in so tightly he could barely move; his father was a master tucker.

"Intolerance," his father finally said, "they don't respect views that are different from their own."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

Ron's father exhaled audibly, "The Faoladh are a proud people with a rich history, Ronnie, that goes back centuries. But many want to forget about our past, ignore our traditions. And they'll attack anyone who disagrees with them.

Ron's eyes went wide. "The Clan War?"

"Yes, but that's not something you have to worry about. Our enemies will never find us, as long as we?"

"Look human, act human, be human," Ron said proudly.

"That's right," Ron's father gave his son a kiss on his head. "One day, we'll be strong enough, For time is his shield. He will be the last and the first and shall live longer than all those that came before."

"The Dead Wolf!" Ron exclaimed, remembering the line from the prophesy. He loved those stories most of all.

"Shouldn't someone already be sleeping?" Said a familiar voice from outside Ron's room. "Don't get Ronnie riled up; he's got school tomorrow."

"Yes, dear." Ron's dad roared with a smile. He placed his fingers to his lips, his voice reducing to a whisper. "Yes, Ronnie. We are all the Dead Wolf, and time is our shield. We just have to wait for the right moment, our moment. My dream is that it comes soon, so we can do it together."

His father had then stood, pausing at the bedroom door, his massive frame silhouetted by the light from the hallway. "But right now, our greatest strength is staying hidden. For if we're discovered, our moment might never come."

#

Ron looked at May and Kay and realized he might have just ended his father's dream.

They know what I am, he thought, and they were waiting for me.

Ron could see May's lips moving, but he couldn't hear her. His panicked thoughts drowned out everything.

Who else knows?

Are they coming for me?

Is that why they brought me here?

What will Gary say?

What would Papa say?

What am I going to do?

"Ron!" May shouted. She held his head between her hands, her face mere inches away from his. Her scent was powerful, lilacs and peaches and… Ron snapped out of his trance.

"What? How ?" Were all the words he could muster.

May's hands moved to Ron's shoulders. "It's ok, Ron, you're ok."

"Did I…?" Ron gulped.

Mary understood immediately. "No, Ron, you didn't kill anyone. You scared the hell out of them and maybe broke a couple of bones. But they'll live."

Ron heard the sounds of distance sirens. His heart began to beat wildly again.

"They've told the police; they're coming for me" Ron's voice was frantic.

May sat beside Ron and rubbed his back reassuringly, her hands making small circles from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck. Ron's heart slowed, and the tension in his shoulders melted. He closed his eyes. He felt much better.

"It's ok, Ron, you're ok." May's repeated. Her melodic voice was soothing, and Ron held onto it like a raft in a storm. "Nobody's coming for you, Ron; they don't even remember. My sister's very good at that."

"Yes, I am," Kay responded. "We couldn't have you thrown in jail; we need you."

"Need me? "Ron asked, opening his eyes. "For what?"

Kay's phone pinged as if in answer to Ron's question.

"Foods here." She said, rolling off the couch and onto her feet in one smooth motion. She then looked pointedly at Ron. "Don't get up. I'll get it."

May rolled her eyes. She then spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "Ronnie. We know about the prophecy."

"What prophecy?" Ron asked, giving May his best I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about face.

May looked exasperated, "Come on, Ron." Then quickly added, "Ok. Fair enough. You don't know who we are, and you don't want to give too much more away. I get that. How about I answer some of your questions?"

Ron nodded, "Who are you?"

May crossed her legs and pushed her hair behind her ears. Ron was half expecting them to be pointed (they weren’t).

"My sister Kay and I are; I guess scouts is the best way to describe us. We were sent to observe the clans as they arrived here in Waterford and look for anyone who might be open to talking."

"Sent by who?" Ron interrupted, "The government?"

May laughed, "Oh heavens no, Ron. Here, perhaps it's easier if I showed you."

PART THIRTEEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 13

Rain began tapping lightly on the windows. Ron reluctantly joined Kay on the couch, holding his bedsheet as strategically as possible. It only took a moment before the dam burst, and the questions gushed out.

"Where am I? What's happening? Where are my clothes? What are those marks on the walls? Did I do that? Did I hurt someone? What time is it? What's that glass? Why was it singing? Who are you?”

Ron felt overwhelmed. He wanted to run; running always made him feel better. But where would I go? He thought. He had no clothes and no answers. The only thing he did have was a splitting headache.

May sat down beside him, placing her hand on his sheet-covered knee. Ron initially recoiled at her touch but relaxed as she spoke in soothing tones.

"It's alright, Ron. You're alright. You got into a fight last night, and we brought you back to our apartment. It's alright."

"And my hands?" Ron asked, pulling them from underneath the sheet; they were still red with what Ron was sure was blood. "And the marks on the walls?"

"The blood is yours, Ron." You were still very agitated when we got you here." May then pointed to a brick wall by the front door; cracks radiated from a shallow hole around head height.

"You sure showed that wall," said Kay from behind her phone, her pale face made even paler from the glow of the screen.

May ignored her. "We then got you to the bedroom where you collapsed, breaking the bed."

"You sure showed that bed," mumbled Kay.

Ron felt relief. Was it weird to be relieved the blood was his? Ron pushed the thought away. There were still a lot of things that didn't make sense. Those bloody marks were too big for him to have made in this present form. How much did these sisters know?

"Did I hurt anyone?"

"Not badly," answered May. Her face a picture of concern.

Kay chuckled. "Let's just say you hurt more than their feelings."

"Ignore her," said May. She then turned and gave her sister a dirty look. "安静" she added. In response, her sister held up her hand in surrender.

"Please tell me what happened," Ron asked.

May went to the kitchen and grabbed some ice and a towel for Ron. The cold felt good pressed against his forehead, and he sunk a little deeper into the couch. She then told him how the three of them had a few beers at the club and were dancing when a couple of local guys started causing trouble. “They pushed you and tried to dance with us.”

Ron sat up. "And that's when we started fighting?"

May shook her head, "No. You tried to defuse the situation, told them there was plenty of music for everyone, but they just laughed and called you a loser."

"…and a moron," added Kay.

Ron ignored Kay as best he could. "And that's when we started fighting."

"Oh, no." May said, "You offered to buy them all a beer."

Ron was starting to think maybe he didn't want to remember what happened.

"So when did we start fighting?" Ron asked, exasperated.

"When they did this," May said, pulling her hair back and revealing an ugly bruise that ran from just above her right eye down to her cheek.

Ron's blood began to boil, and he could feel the rage from last night returning. He struggled to suppress it and quickly thought back to his father’s training, breathing deeply and pushing it down into the pit of his stomach. This was not the time for emotion, he thought; it was time for answers.

Ron reached out and gently caught a tear that had fallen onto May's cheek. For a moment, the world fell away, and all he could see was the face of a girl who needed his help.

"And then what happened?" He asked finally.

"It was epic!" Kay said a little too enthusiastically, putting down her phone. She then stood up and proceeded to mime the fight, complete with sound effects. Her colourful performance ended with a mock upper cult, resulting in a backflip over the couch.

"And then we came straight here?" Ron thought he already knew the answer.

"Well, no. We left the club and took a shortcut through the park, but the locals followed us and tried to jump you with some of their friends."

"Emphasis on the try," Kay interjected, a big smile on her face.

Ron's panic began to return. "What?"

"Biggest mistake of their lives." Kay continued, laughing. "They got in a couple of shots before you went all brown Hulk on them. I've never seen so many men wet themselves. Like I said, epic."

Ron was quiet, taking it all in. There was a lot he could say, a lot he could ask, but only two words came to mind.

"Brown Hulk?"

The rain had stopped, and sunlight had begun reflecting off the windows. May was the first to speak.

"Yes, Ron. We know you're Faoladh, a shifter. That's why we were outside the club last night.

PART TWELVE

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 12

Bang. Bang. Bang

Ron woke to the sound of construction; he didn't know what they were building, but it seemed to require a lot of nails. He kept his eyes tightly shut. Hoping they'd stop.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bang. Bang. Bang

No such luck, he thought, opening his eyes.

Argh! The light burned, and the hammering got louder. Ron realized whatever was being built was probably located in a cozy cul-de-sac inside his own skull.

Sitting up, Ron saw he was lying on a bare mattress; the bed it belonged to snapped in half beside it. The room looked like a tornado had hit it. There was broken glass everywhere. In one corner, an old dresser had spilled its contents on the floor; a collection of small delicate clothes Ron felt slightly embarrassed to look at.

He pulled off the thin cotton sheet covering him and noticed two things:

First, his knuckles were stained red.

And second, he was only wearing underwear.

Panic gripped Ron as he wrapped the sheet around him and tumbled off the mattress before getting awkwardly to his feet. The bedroom had floor-to-ceiling windows and intricate crown molding on the ceiling. Ron could also see giant red handprints on the walls leading to a long hallway. He followed them slowly, cautiously, avoiding the glass on the floor.

The hallway led to a large living space that, thankfully, hadn't suffered the fate of the bedroom. There was an oversized leather sofa and a huge flat screen tv, both of which would typically have gotten Ron's attention first. Instead, his eyes went straight to the dining room table, or more importantly, the two identical girls sitting at it, both staring intently at a large, ornate glass goblet.

"Can you hear anything, Kay?" May said. Her voice sounding a little desperate.

"笨蛋! If I could hear it, you would hear it too." Kay replied, clearly irritated. "Now, be quiet. I have to concentrate."

Ron steadied himself against the wall, his head still pounding. He desperately wanted to storm in and demand to know what the Hell was going on, but he stopped himself. Whatever these two were up to, the answers had something to do with that weird glass cup. He was sure of it.

"再试一次," Kay said.

"Fine!" May answered, lifting her index finger to her lips. She touched her tongue lightly and then reached for the glass, her finger making slow circles on the rim.

Ron listened intently. It was quiet at first, a low hum - in the key of G if he wasn't mistaken. It gathered in strength as May moved her finger around the round the rim. She then uncorked a small vial and poured the contents into the cup. When she brought her finger back to the rim, the key had changed to A.

The glass is singing, Ron said to himself. It was pleasant if a little melancholy. But why are they doing it?

May continued to make the glass sing, adding drops of liquid or removing them with a silver ladle. The whole process was ritualistic and reminded Ron of a Japanese tea ceremony.

Suddenly, the liquid in the glass began to glow. May lifted her finger from the glass - yet the singing remained, the notes now changing on their own, the pattern repeating.

G-A-B-G-G-A-B-G

B-C-D-B-C-D

D-E-D-C-B-G

D-E-D-C-B-G

D-G-D-D-G-D

Ron recognized the tune, a children's lullaby, though he couldn't think of the name. It was baffling. Based on last night, he'd have sworn May and Kay weren't into baby songs. They struck him as more hip-hop than hippity-hop.

Last night. The words swirled in Ron's head, his panic returning. What happened? He remembered entering the club with a girl on each arm. The incredible feeling of power, like he could do anything, and no one could stop him. He remembered the rooftop patio, the dancing, the beer and then…. nothing.

No, not nothing. Ron could remember anger. No, not anger, rage, blind rage, a feeling so primal it blotted out everything else.

What did I do?

"What did you do?" Kay asked.

"Nothing." Answered May. The glass had suddenly stopped singing, and the glow inside it had faded.

"Clearly," Kay said, her tone dismissive. She stood up from the table shuffled her way to the living room, plopping down on the couch. Ron noticed she was wearing pajamas with pink polka dots and matching oversized slippers. A stark contrast from last night's outfit.

"你认为你可以做得更好吗? May barked. Ron didn't understand what she was saying, but from Mary’s tone figured it couldn't be complimentary.

"Maybe I could," Kay responded from the couch. She put her feet up on the coffee table one at a time, punctuating her sentence.

May stood up as well. She was wearing an oversized white shirt that looked familiar and pink pajama bottoms. "It's never not worked before. What are we going to do?"

"Maybe you should ask him?" Kay said, jamming her thumb in Ron's direction. May turned to look at Ron, who was frozen in the hallway like a deer in headlight.

"Ron!" May said, her face transforming from panic to delight. "You're awake." She walked over to Ron, who took a step back.

"You must have a thousand questions. Please, sit down, and we'll try to answer them."

"Emphasis on the try," Kay snorted, her nose buried in her phone.

PART ELEVEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 11

Ron might have been short for a werewolf, but he felt ten feet tall with May and Kay on each arm. All his previous feelings of inadequacy were gone. He was Alpha.

As they walked to the front of the line, men looked at him with envy and respect. And the women - the women looked at him. Not his brothers or his cousins, him.

This is amazing, thought Ron, and though he'd never had a drink in his seventeen years, he thought this is what it must feel like to be intoxicated.

The person at the door was a giant of a man wearing a tight three-piece suit. He was all chest and arms, no neck in sight. Human, but tall even by werewolf standards.

The doorman placed his hand on a red velvet rope, which held back the throngs of would-be-party-goers like an electrified fence covered in barbed wire.

"Kid's gonna have to show some ID ladies," he said in a deep voice.

Ron considered joking that the doorman's voice was as deep as The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. But then quickly realized this might be precisely why he'd never kissed a girl and kept silent.

"Oh, come on," May said, her face awash in pouty disappointment.

"It's his birthday." Kay pleaded, "He turned twenty-five today. Isn't that right, Ron?"

May and Kay slipped their hands beneath Ron's shirt and rubbed his back reassuringly, their fingers making circles from the base of his neck to the small of his back. Ron suddenly felt a surge of confidence flow through him.

Who is this human to ask me for anything? Ron thought as he stared at the doorman, a deep guttural sound gathering in his throat.

The doorman, an imposing wall of authority just a moment ago, looked unsure of himself, his voice cracking.

"Well… I mean… he doesn't…."

Ron said nothing, focusing more on imagining what he'd do to this human if he wasted any more of his time. The images came unbidden. Violent, savage, fun. Ron had never felt this way before.

He liked it.

The doorman averted his gaze and unclipped the velvet rope. Ron strolled past and into the club.

As they entered, May and Kay removed their hands from Ron's back and linked arms again. Ron felt his anger dissolve away, like a fog lifting from his mind.

He looked down at his shirt and was surprised to see each sleeve was slightly torn at the bicep. His pants also had a tear in the inseam just above the knee. What just happened? He thought.

"Come on, Ron…" May said.

"…. let's grab a drink," Kay said.

As they led him through the club, Ron's head spun. There was too much of everything. The sound rattled his bones, the smells - there were too many to count, and the sights, oh the sights. Darkness held no secrets for his kind. People, a mass of humanity, dancing in the darkness; primitive mating rituals set to the beat of electronica lounge. Even the floor had a sensation, each of his steps slightly stickier than the last. Ron didn't want to know why.

They came to another doorman guarding a stairwell labelled "VIP." Ron saw May (or perhaps it was Kay) passing something to him as he waved them through. The stairs led to a private rooftop patio, and Ron felt like he could breathe again.

Old fashioned light bulbs, their filaments buzzing, crisscrossed high above the gathered crowd. In one corner, a small bar was tended by an older woman covered in tattoos. Ron looked out over the city and the rolling hills of the countryside beyond it. It called to him like never before. He gripped the railing tightly, resisting the urge to tear off his clothes and leap from the rooftop until the city, the people, even civilization itself, was far behind him.

"What's happening to me?" He said to the moon, which looked down on him like a giant white empanada. The full moon is still a week away; I shouldn't be feeling like this.

"We got drinks." Said Kay (or possibly May). She had a beer in each hand and passed one to Ron. May (or possibly Kay) followed, carrying her own beer. Ron could see tiny droplets of condensation forming on the outside of each bottle. Ron was not much of a drinker; he'd only tried it once. His brother Carl had goaded him into chugging one when he was fifteen. Ron had immediately thrown up, much to the amusement of Carl and his friends.

But the girls didn't need to know that, Ron thought.

Ron took the beer as nonchalantly as possible and held it at his side. "Thanks, but I really should be getting back."

The sisters looked heartbroken.

"Kay?" Asked May

"Yes, May? Answered Kay

"I think you know what we have to do."

"Yes. It's the only answer."

"Dance!" They said in unison, grabbing Ron and pulling him to a smaller dance floor at one end of the patio. Ron reluctantly let them lead him there. He didn't feel right, but he also liked being the centre of attention.

They danced for a while, and soon May and Kay were sweating from their efforts. Ron marveled at their stamina and enthusiasm. Their movements were sensual, almost ritualistic, and he began to feel powerful again as they spun around him. Powerful and angry.

No. Ron said, leaving the dance floor and making his way back to the bar where his beer sat, untouched. May and Kay followed.

"What's up, Ron?" Asked May

"Not feeling well?" Asked Kay

Ron sat down heavily on a bar stool. "I think I should go."

"Oh no!" Said May and Kay, their faces full of sympathy.

"You can't go now…."

"…we just got here…."

"You really should …."

"…just finish your beer."

It was not the response Ron was expecting, but it did sort of make sense, he thought.

"You can't go now…."

"…we just got here…."

"You really should …."

"…just finish your beer."

Ron didn’t think they needed to repeat it, he’d heard it the first time. Still, their words were making more and more sense.

He smiled and picked up his bottle. "I guess one beer can't hurt. Right?"

PART TEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 10

Ron left the cafe, hands balled into fists, ignoring the stares of customers and staff. He walked for hours, passing streets with names like Ballytruckle, The Folly and Five Alley Lane. He passed Reginald's Tower, built by the Anglo-Normans in the 13th century, but he paid it no more attention than Gallagher's Late Night Pharmacy. He then started running, but the song stayed with him no matter how fast he ran.

All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names.

The street lights came on, and Ron paused in front of a shop to catch his breath. The sign said Eddie O'Donnell's Headstones. He wanted to rest, but the song quickly caught up to him, and he began running again.

They never let poor Rudolph join in any Reindeer games.

The city became a blur of faces and places. Many of the buildings were painted with giant, colourful portraits. Ron didn't recognize any of them, but he felt like their enormous eyes were judging him. He knew he was being irrational. This was precisely why everyone treated him like some helpless or hapless puppy. His mind raced, repeating the same thoughts over and over.

This trip was supposed to change all that. I'd finally be able to prove myself.

Ron stopped abruptly, finding himself in front of Eddie O'Donnell's Headstones.

"What the hell? "said Ron aloud. He thought back to his route. Have I been running in circles?

He started moving again. This time reading the street signs as he passed. Philip Street, Lower Yellow Road, Newport's Square, Emmet Place…

Eddie O'Donnell's Headstones.

This is crazy, Ron thought. Are my eyes playing tricks on me?

He was about to start running again when he stopped himself, mentally slapping his forehead. Look Human. Act Human. His father's words were so ingrained in him that he sometimes thought he was human.

But he wasn't. He was Faoladh, a shifter, a descendent of Laignach Faelad. His senses connected him with nature in a way no human could comprehend. He didn't need to see to find his way; a single sound or smell could tell him a place's history, its energy. Even its mood.

Ron enabled deeply. Ooh! Pizza!

He could smell raw dough and hear the impact of hands as it was kneaded back and forth on a marble countertop. Smell freshly sliced pepperoni, mushrooms and onions and hear them roasting in a stone oven; mozzarella cheese bubbling.

He closed his eyes and held that image in his mind. He breathed in again. Now he could smell raw fish, not from the harbour, but from a sushi restaurant about a hundred metres North, a combination of wild salmon, tuna and that strip-of-egg-thing he could never remember the name of.

From the West, the smell of stale beer, tobacco and… a combination of sweat and anticipation? Desperation? Ron couldn't tell, but there was also music, loud and kinetic. Something Ron enjoyed very much.

He held these three images in his mind and used them to move away from Eddie O'Donnell's Headstones. He moved slowly at first, letting his other senses take over. Soon he was able to quickly walk among the crowds of people, seeing each of them in his mind as shifting echoes of sound & smell. He felt the wind swirl around them. It was wonderful.

When he had walked for perhaps twenty minutes, he opened his eyes. He was surrounded by several shops, a large park and a busy-looking club with people standing in line outside.

No stores selling headstones insight.

"He's got skills," said a woman's voice from behind.

"他也很可愛." Said the other. Ron thought it sounded Chinese, but he couldn't be sure.

Ron turned and was greeted by two young women. One was leaning up against the hood of a parked car, the other was trying to open one of its doors unsuccessfully.

They were twins, Ron noted. Pretty, with long brown hair that ended in white tips. They were a little thin for his taste, but they still radiated strength. Pretty, but intimidating. Their features sharp, their eyes suspicious.

"Do you like walking around with your eyes closed?" Asked the one leaning on the hood of the car.

"No," Ron replied. He was feeling much better. He always felt better when he connected with his true self.

The other twin stopped fiddling with the car door and approached Ron. They were both wearing, well, Ron didn't know what to call it more than a "dress," but it was black, shiny and showed a lot of skin, particularly around the midriff. Ron approved.

"Where are you from?" They asked in unison. Then giggled, "Jinx!"

"Canada." Ron answered, then added "Toronto."

Both girls smiled. "Well, we do love Canadians." Said the girl closest to Ron."

"So polite," said one.

"So Canadian," said the other.

They began to circle him, finishing each other's sentences. Ron was starting to get confused about which was which.

"I think he should come…."

"….with us to the club."

"Would you like that…"

"…Canadian from Toronto?"

Ron knew one-hundred percent he'd like that very much. In fact, He could now think of little else, his previous pity-party a distant memory. He inhaled deeply.

The two girls looked at Ron, their expressions a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"Do we stink?" Said one

"He thinks we stink." Said the other.

Both then turned and began walking in the direction of the club.

"你好可怕..." They said in unison.

"Wait. No. I don't think…." Ron shouted. Moving to catch up. The two girls laughed and linked arms with him.

"He's so nice."

"So polite."

"So Canadian."

Ron wasn't sure he liked being described as "nice" and "polite."

"I'm Ron." He said, his voice a little deeper than before. He pushed back his shoulders as they walked, trying to add a little swagger.

"I'm Hǔnluàn." Said one.

"I'm Wěnluàn. Said the other.

"But you can call us May and Kay." They said in unison.

PART NINE

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 9

Outside the Inn, Mary held Ron's arm. "There's a lovely cafe over on Hanover Street," she said, still speaking quietly in Ron's ear. "They make the best tomato soup, though sometimes I go straight for dessert."

"Why are we whispering?" Ron whispered. It felt like they were doing something elicit, which excited Ron as it confused him.

"I don't want her to get jealous," replied Mary with a smile. There was a slight chill in the air, but Mary's smile radiated a warmth more insulating than any sweater.

Who's her? Asked Ron.

"Why the Inn of course, my silly man."

Mary was not lying about the cafe. The Granary was a lovely place to eat. Open and airy, with large windows facing the street. It was family-owned and perfect for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or anytime you wanted to discuss a sentient hotel with its own walk-in freezer.

"She's been around since the mountains first peaked through the ocean to glimpse a bird-less sky," Mary said, sipping on a cappuccino.

"So she's old then," Tom replied, taking a bite from a grilled chicken sandwich. He noted the homemade spicy aioli worked really well with the toasted brioche bun.

"Well, she'd say she was old enough," Mary continued.

"What is she?" Asked Ron.

Mary paused for a moment. "That's not an easy question to answer. She is…has been… whatever she's needed to be. A cave to protect you from the rain, a house to raise a family, a lodge to build community, or even a simple inn, with a five-star Yelp review, I might add.

Ron's eyebrows knit a sweater, prompting Mary to explain further.

"In Gaelic, we call her Go brách baile," Mary said. Ron racked his brain to remember his Gaelic. His auntie Maud taught it to all his siblings and cousins growing up, though, in truth, he forgot most of it the moment class had ended.

Mary didn't let him suffer long. "It means forever home. That's what she is, a home, a place of safety for all who need it. She's provided shelter to our people for centuries until we split into warring factions and left our ancestral home in search of fortune and territory. She was lonely for many years, kept company only by the strays she'd find. She likes strays.

Ron was amazed by what he was hearing. If magic were real, if the Inn was real, he wondered what other stories might be. Elementals? Sprites? Dragons? Well, hopefully not that last one.

"And are you her caretaker?" Asked Ron.

Mary laughed, and so did Ron. In fact, Ron noticed people at several tables laughing. There were even people on the street, well out of earshot, who suddenly giggled as if remembering a funny story.

"Heavens no!" Mary replied, lowering her voice, "And make sure she doesn't hear you say that! She doesn't need anyone to take care of her. If I had to give myself a title, I'd say I'm part front-desk clerk, part concierge. It's job is to look after her guests and assist them with whatever they need."

"And what do we need?" Asked Ron.

"You need a safe place to plan for the coming storm. A place where all the clans can reclaim what they've lost. You are all claws of the same hand; you just don't know it.

"Well, if that's the case, I'm the hangnail," Ron muttered.

Mary reached across the table and held Ron's hands. She turned them face up and studied his palms. "Why do you put yourself down so?" You're as bright and as strong as any of your brethren." With her finger, she traced the lines. You can be the hero of your own story Ronnie, but only if you believe it. I know I do.

Mary's hands were warm and offered comfort, but Ron pulled his away. He had already organized his own pity party, and he had every intention of attending.

"He doesn't trust me." Ron blurted out.

"Who?" Mary asked. "Carl?"

"My Alpha."

"Nonsense," Mary said, waving away the very notion with her hand. "He sent you ahead first to make sure everything was safe. That hardly sounds like someone who doesn't trust you."

Ron squeezed the metal table leg. Leaving a slight impression of his hand. "You don't understand. They did that to get rid of me. So they could make plans."

The waitress came over and cleared the plates. Mary ordered a slice of roulade, covered in strawberries.

Ron wasn't sure why, but he found himself telling Mary things he could hardly admit to himself. Tucked away in a corner of the cafe, he talked for what seemed like hours. He told her his whole life story, about growing up in Canada, about being ridiculed by his cousins and half-siblings. About being called "Shiftless." He spoke of his loneliness and feeling like a pariah, excluded from even the simplest childhood games.

Mary looked deeply into his eyes and squeezed his hands.

"You sound like Rudolph."

"What?" Asked Ron.

Mary tilted her head to one side. "You know the song, don't you? All of the other reindeer use to laugh and call him names."

Ron violently pushed his chair back, metal legs scraping against the grey titled floors and filling the cafe with a horrible screeching sound. He ran from the restaurant, his face a mask of anger and embarrassment.

PART EIGHT

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 8

Ron felt strange as he passed through the doorway to - wherever this was. His heightened senses could measure temperature and air quality and he'd heard some of his kind could even tell you their exact location based on changes in atmospheric pressure and magnetic fields. Ron knew he couldn't do that, but he did know the difference between inside and outside and this place felt… wrong. Like he was inside AND outside at the same time.

He could feel a gentle breeze in the air, tickling the back of his neck. He could hear songbirds overhead, moving from unseen tree to unseen tree. Still, he also felt boundaries, like you would in any building; that slightly claustrophobic feeling his kind was particularly sensitive to.

"It takes a little getting used to," said Mary, Walking around to the other side of the treeble. Ron now noticed she was barefoot and that tiny white flowers were sprouting behind her, filling in each footprint. He steadied himself on a twisted branch that's seemed to be there just for that purpose and sat down heavily.

"Who are you?" Ron asked.

"I'm Muirenne, and this is my merry inn," Mary replied matter-of-factly. She sat lightly on treeble and swung her legs back and forth like a kindergartener on a swing.

There was then a long pause, and it became clear to Ron she wasn't going to provide any more details. So he tried again. His hands spread out in front of him.

"What is this place?"

"The Inn?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Ron replied, his voice now tinged with impatience. "What is it?"

"Not it," Mary corrected she.

Ron suddenly felt very uncomfortable. This was all a little much for a boy from Toronto. "I think we'd better find my brother."

Mary looked confused at Ron's sudden change in attitude. "Oh, of course," she said, "he should be back any moment."

As if on cue, Ron could see a shape swirling behind the mist, growing more substantial the closer it got. For a moment, it looked like two forms, but then the mist parted, and Carl emerged. Ron sniffed the air. Carl smelled agitated and not the typical agitated he was when Ron was around. This was different.

"Let's go." Carl half growled.

Given what Ron had just experienced, he was, in fact, ready to go. Yet this did seem abrupt. "Are you sure, Carl?" He asked. "We just got here."

Carl continued walking with purpose, but stopped before exiting.

"You should stay." He said without turning around. I'll report back to Gary, and we'll all see you here this evening.

"Bu…but…" stammered Ron.

"No butts. Just do something useful and make sure everything's ready when we return. We like our steaks rare."

"I know, I know," said Ron, feeling defeated.

"Rare." Echoed a voice from far down the hallway

Ron closed his eyes and swallowed hard. It tasted bitter. Caterer. That's my role, thought Ron, remembering back to when Gary first told him of the Prophecy.

"I need you to help me, Ron," he said. "This will be a glorious adventure," he said. "We each have a role to play," he said.

Blah, blah, blah.

Ron's thoughts swirled. You lied to me, Gary. You promised me glory and a chance to wipe the slate clean. Yes. We each have a role to play, but it seems mine will always be more culinary than council, more sous chef than soldier.

Ron cursed, "You make ONE cheese soufflé, and they never let you forget it!"

The scent of lilac and honey was suddenly close. "Ronnie?" Asked Mary. "Is everything ok?"

Ron opened his eyes. She was standing right next to him.

"I'm fine." He said, not meeting her gaze. "That's just Carl being Carl. I'd better check on those steaks."

"There's no need for that," Mary assured him. She then leaned in close, which he didn't mind in the slightest, and whispered, "Why don't we take a walk outside and I'll give you a tour of Waterford."

PART SEVEN

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 7

As Ron stood silently in front of the Scratch & Sniff inn, many questions went through his head. Most of them involved Mary, including who she was and why she smelled so good? The overpowering odour of fish had finally left his nostrils, and he was left with a sweet combination of lilac, honey and… something he couldn't quite place. He also found his stomach was twisting knots, a weird combination of hunger and nausea.

Carl could handle the inspection, he thought, shoving his hands in his pockets with confident determination. Yes. I think I'll explore the city a little more and make sure it's safe. With all the clans here, this is a Mary dangerous place to be.

The door opened, and Mary poked her head out, her red curls falling over her face.

"Coming handsome?" she asked?

"Coming." Replied Ron

The inside of the inn was not what Ron was expecting. He wasn't sure exactly what he was expecting but it wasn't this. There were animals everywhere - dogs, cats, birds, dozens of them. Some were sleeping, some were eating, some were playing with each other. All of them, however, were behaving themselves. There wasn't a bark, hiss, or squawk from any of them. They all stopped and looked at Ron, which he found very disturbing.

"Hello? "Ron asked the room. Mary was nowhere in sight, even though she'd just invited him in a second ago.

The animals returned to what they were doing, much to Ron's relief. It was a very odd sight, he thought. They weren't acting like they should. Birds were perched on the heads of cats who didn't seem to mind. Cats played with dogs' tails, trying to grab them as they swished back and forth. Ron even noticed a mouse cleaning itself in a water dish surrounded by a Persian and two Siamese that looked like they meant business.

The room was also larger than expected, with comfortable-looking chairs and couches spread out haphazardly across carpeted hardwood floors. The plaster walls were painted with intricate murals of the Irish countryside. Ron thought the murals seemed to move as he moved, their perspective-changing as he got closer or further away. But he dismissed this as a trick of the light or withdrawal symptoms. He had been without a phone, tablet, or computer for weeks, and it was obviously affecting his mental state.

"Hello? Is anyone here? He repeated, making his way to a large wooden desk that said Registration. Even the walk there was strange, taking longer than he knew it should. Ron spotted a classic brass bell on the desk and rang it impatiently.

"Is anyone…."

"Be right with you, Ronnie." Said a familiar, melodious voice from beyond a half-opened door behind the registration desk. Moments later, Mary's smile entered, followed by the rest of her; and Ron felt the room get brighter and slightly warmer.

"Sorry, Sweetie. Just showing your brother around the Inn." She lowered her voice and leaned over the desk. "He's sooo serious."

Ron laughed involuntarily. He barely recognized the sound. It felt good, but he also felt guilty. It had been a year since their clan soothsayer, who was also his mother, had died; torn from this world in a fit of spasms. She had been the first, followed by soothsayers from other clans, one passing with each full moon. There had been no time for laughter since that day. No time for sadness either. Only time for serious plans, made by serious people.

Ron glanced back at the inn's four-legged residents. "So what's with all the…."

"The Inn is pet friendly," answered Mary. "She likes strays. Now, shall we go find your brother?" She left the room without waiting for an answer. Ron filed his other one hundred questions under "for later" and quickly followed.

The rest of the inn was no less surprising. The kitchen was warmed by a large ancient hearth. Yet, it was as well-stocked as the most upscale restaurant, with gas ranges, food processors and stainless steel refrigerators. Sides of beef, venison, pork and lamb hung in a walk-in freezer. The pantry was filled with fruits and nuts, vegetables and spices. Ten small chickens rotated slowly inside a rotisserie oven. The smell was intoxicating, and though Ron's senses weren't as heightened as his brother's, he found himself licking his lips and counting the spices he could identify. If he could fly, he would have floated across the room like a cartoon rabbit.

"The Inn doesn't like all the modern conveniences," Mary said, temporarily waking Ron from his food trance. "But you can't feed the five clans over a wooden spit, at least not in this century."

Ron begrudgingly left the kitchen catching up to Mary and nearly tripping over two Siamese cats in the process.

"Mary, you said, feed the five clans. They're not all... staying here, are they?"

Mary smiled, and Ron's fear evaporated. "Don't worry." She said reassuringly, leading Ron through a maze of hallways and storerooms filled with dusty bottles of wine, stacked barrels of beer and bags of flour, rice and potatoes. "The Inn is big and will make sure you won't see each other, except during negotiations.

That sentence made little sense to Ron, but one part did. "What do you mean, negotiations?" I thought Gary, I mean our Alpha, had already negotiated peace with the other Clans?"

Mary stopped at a door in the shape of an oak tree. It had five branches, and at the end of each were intricate carvings of the five clans' insignias. "Peace is like a fish in the lake, Ronnie. Hard to catch and even harder to hold on to."

"Who said that? "asked Ron.

"Me." Replied Mary with another signature wink. She placed one hand lightly on the door, and it slowly opened on its own.

Ron looked past Mary to the space beyond the door. If the inn had defied expectations so far, this place shattered them. He couldn't call it a room, for the walls and ceiling were just mist that danced in an ethereal light that seemed to come from everywhere. There was a stone floor, but wild grass, moss, and flowers sprang from every crack. Ron could also hear birds and insects. He knew it was impossible, but it felt like the outdoors.

In the centre of the "room" was an enormous table made from the living trunk of a single tree. It was bent over as if bowing to its guests, its branches forming benches to sit on. The "treeble" as Ron decided to call it, could easily seat fifty people, maybe more.

"Magic," breathed Ron. Scarcely believing what he was seeing.

Ron knew the average human might be surprised to learn that someone who grew up in a family of shapeshifters would be surprised by anything, even a misty forest room in the middle of a pet-friendly Waterford Inn.

But those people would be wrong.

Ron's father's number one rule was: look human, act human. And that rule extended well past shifting, which most could only do during a full moon anyway. It meant that all their ancient traditions needed to be suppressed, including magic. This did not sit well with the females, particularly soothsayers, who were now forbidden from doing that which they had sacrificed so much for.

So, like running and hunting with his pack in the mountains, Ron never grew up with magic. Never saw a clan member healed through the transfer of another's life force. Never witnessed shadow dances or took part in forest communion where vast networks of roots would tell stories of their brethren thousands of kilometers away. The original World Wide Web. No, to Ron, these were just stories, like so many fantasy novels he's read as a cub. Just stories, until now.

Standing at the entrance. Ron couldn't move. The enormity of what he was seeing had frozen him in place. Mary put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"A little overwhelming, isn't it?

"Yeah." Was all Ron could say.

"Did your family teach you nothing of our ways?"

"Yes. I mean no," stammered Ron, not wanting to sound completely incompetent, especially in front of Mary. "I know all about magic. We just didn't practice it back in Canada. Too dangerous."

"I understand." said Mary, "Every time you pierce the veil, you leave a small piece of yourself behind. That piece can, with proper training, be tracked to the source. It was a wise decision your Alpha made."

Mary stepped backward through the doorway; eyes locked on Ron. The air shimmered around her briefly as she held out her hand. "Come." She said.

Ron paused for just a moment before holding his breath and stepping through.

PART SIX

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 6

After the trawler docked, Gary pulled Carl and Ron aside.

"I want the two of you to scout ahead. Check out the town and our accommodations. Report back tonight."

Carl's nostrils flared; he was not pleased. "I'll move a lot faster and quieter if I don't have to cub-sit."

"I'm not a cub!" Ron protested, looking up at his two older brothers. He was seventeen and fully grown if a little small by pack standards.

Gary said nothing. He stared directly at Carl, who stared defiantly back. The contest lasted nearly a full minute (a new record) before Carl turned away.

"Fine," he said, grabbing a large, well-used rucksack and throwing it effortlessly over his shoulder. He then climbed the rusty ladder out of the hold, pausing briefly at the top. "It's on you if he screws up."

Ron quickly followed his brother, and soon the two were standing on the dock, the city of Waterford spread out in front of them. The low-rise buildings were a mix of old and older, with the remnants of an ancient fortress wall peeking out from behind quaint shops, hotels and restaurants. In the distance, the tops of towers and church spires stood guard over the city, like a chess set made for gods.

Fisherman unloaded their catch in large nets, bound for local markets. Ron could smell trout, salmon and even eel, but little else. It was like being inside the fisherman's trousers. Humans typically gave off a particular odour, almost like a fingerprint, but it was masked by the all-consuming smell of fish. The clans called it noise-blindness.

Carl stared straight ahead and walked quickly, paying no attention to the fisherman, buildings or tourists, who parted for him like the Red Sea. Ron wasn't so lucky and had to dodge around foodies and photographers just to keep up.

"Did you know, Carl, that Waterford is the oldest city in Ireland? It's also the fifth most populated. It's believed to have been established by the Viking Ragnall, grandson of Ivar the Boneless in 914 AD."

If Carl found this information interesting, he didn't express it in any way. He turned down a side street paved in cobblestones and another lined with small shops. The smell of fish reduced to a distant memory.

"Of course, the city's really known for Waterford Crystal," continued Ron. "Founded by George and William Penrose in 1883."

"Will you BE QUIET?" said Carl in his I'm-this-close-to-making-you-unconscious voice. He stopped abruptly in front of a large red door. A sign hung above it, an illustration of a large dog's nose with three scratches cutting across it.

The Scratch and Sniff Inn, it read.

Carl spat. "Why Gary would want us to stay in this flea-ridden dump, I'll never understand."

"Rudeness is no way to say hello," said a melodious voice from above. Carl and Ron looked up to see a young woman leaning out of a window whose sill was covered in colourful flowers. She had a round, friendly face and huge eyes that seemed to smile as she spoke. She held a small plastic watering can in one hand and a pair of shears in the other.

"What?" Replied Carl.

"Rudeness is a terrible way to say hello," the woman repeated, though this time more slowly, like she was speaking to a child. "You called my inn flea-ridden, and I can assure you, it's a sight cleaner than whatever hole you crawled out of."

Carl's whole body tensed. He was about to say something when the woman interrupted.

"And it's 1783."

Now it was Ron's turn. "What?"

"You said Waterford Crystal was founded by George and William Penrose in 1883. It's actually 1783, a hundred years earlier."

"Sorry." Said Ron sheepishly, suddenly feeling very exposed.

"Well," replied the woman to no one in particular. I guess they can't be handsome and smart." She laughed, tossing her curly red hair, which was at least a shade lighter than Ron's face at that moment.

Carl sniffed the air deeply. "You must be Mary," he said without a trace of warmth.

"And you must be Carl," replied Mary, sniffing the air equally deeply and then holding her nose. She then turned and winked at Ron. "And you must be Ronny. Come on in then. It's not locked."

Carl opened the door and walked in without another word, the door slamming shut behind him. Mary disappeared from the window.

Ron stood in the street, still looking up at the flower box.

"Yes. I'm Ronnie. It's nice to meet you too."

PART FIVE

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 5

Beware the Light. She warms but also burns. She shows the way but also blinds. Her face is defeat. Her smile oblivion.

But the Light cannot touch the Dead Wolf, for Time is his shield. He will be the Last and the First and shall live longer than all those that came before.

He will wield that which has been hidden for centuries yet is always near. Light cannot survive where one cannot breathe, and the Dead Wolf has no breath to give.

The Prophecy of the Dead Wolf was, unsurprisingly, cryptic, like all good prophecies and New Yorker cartoons. It had been around since the Middle Ages when Ron's ancestors lived in the Irish kingdom of Ossory. They were, in fact, descendants of the legendary Laignech Faelad himself, whose line gave rise to the Kings of Ossory. As a child, Ron secretly fancied himself a lost prince who would one day return to claim his throne, but the closest he got was being a fan of Prince. And though there was no castle, with battlements and turrets rising in the mist, Sign of the Times was a pretty sweet album.

The words have been interpreted and reinterpreted by clan soothsayers for centuries. There were few things they all agreed on, except that a great war was coming, a war no single clan could win. Many believed the Dead Wolf would unite the clans by sacrificing himself. That he would "live longer than all that came before him" as a martyr, a hero immortalized in storey and song.

That's the version Ron believed as he looked at his brother standing on that rock, fur dyed crimson from the gaze of the full moon. Gary was the Dead Wolf. He'd already convinced the other heads of the clans to meet here on the emerald shores of their ancestral homeland. It had not been easy, but they had little choice. The signs were clear. Not a single live birth among the clans in thirteen moons. The Light, whatever it was, was coming for them all.

"Dead Wolf" the chanting began slowly as some of Ron's siblings stopped howling and gazed in awe at their brother.

"Dead Wolf. Dead Wolf." The words grew in strength and conviction

“Dead Wolf! Dead WOLF! DEAD WOLF!”

Yes. Gary was the Dead Wolf. That was certain, thought Ron. What he hoped wasn't certain, was the "dead" part.

Ron and the rest of his family had only arrived in Ireland a week before. They'd taken a very indirect route to get there from their home in Canada. First a train to Halifax, then a seasick-inducing voyage in a cargo container to Iceland, and finally passage on a local trawler bound for Waterford, the oldest city in Ireland. They did this to avoid meeting the other clans until they were on sacred Ossory ground. The only place on Earth they wouldn't be spaghetti and meatballed on sight.