Chapter 93 93

Chapter 93 93

The woman standing before him was undeniably beautiful, yet she wore a faded, tattered gown that seemed to weigh down her frame, and her face was etched with a profound, lingering sorrow. When Cicero spotted her, she was just emerging from a dusty clothing store. The detective hesitated for a few heartbeats, debating whether or not to approach, but the woman walked straight toward him with purposeful strides. She scanned him with intense, piercing eyes, and Cicero knew with absolute certainty that this encounter was no mere coincidence. His hand instinctively darted to his waist, fingers hooking into his holster, preparing to draw his weapon. He opened his mouth to deliver a sharp interrogation—and then, everything went wrong.

He was caught off guard, overwhelmed in an instant. Before Cicero could even process the movement, the woman had closed the distance, pressing her body firmly against his. Her slender arms moved with surprising, restrictive strength, pinning his own arms against his sides like the rigid handles of a handcart. She held him in a lock that made it physically impossible to reach his firearm. Her grip was so agonizingly tight that her long, delicate fingers left angry, rope-like bruises circling his wrists.

"She’s a transcendent!" Cicero thought, his mind racing. "But her combat form is shockingly amateurish!"

In the heat of the moment, realizing he was pinned and weaponless, Cicero did something he would usually find beneath his dignity: he screamed. "Help! Someone help me!"

A man of his stature bellowing for help alongside a beautiful lady was an absurd sight. It drew the attention of nearby pedestrians, who slowed their pace to gawk and snicker. Yet, the woman did not loosen her iron-like grip. Because they were standing just steps away from a clothing store, the onlookers quickly concocted their own narrative, assuming they were a married couple embroiled in a bitter, domestic dispute over shopping expenses. Unwilling to get involved in a private marital brawl, the crowd simply drifted away, leaving them to their struggle.

A moment later, Voluntin jogged into view, his chest heaving with exertion. He plowed through the remaining bystanders, thrusting his official security badge into the air to command authority. He glared at the detective and declared, "You are officially under suspicion for illegal weapon possession! You will come with us for questioning immediately."

At the mere mention of the law and weapon charges, the remaining onlookers scattered like leaves in a gale. In St. Alwin Parish, the proximity to the railway lines meant that street gangs were a constant, dangerous presence, and any entanglement with the authorities was a fate people desperately avoided. Once the street was deserted, Cicero opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat. He could have shouted his affiliation with the prestigious Hook Detective Agency—an organization that secured government-sanctioned weapon permits for its investigators—but today, to maintain the secrecy of their mission, he was neither in uniform nor carrying his credentials. He had no proof, and more importantly, he dared not let these people drag him back to their base for a search. If they found his notes, everything would be lost.

Cicero felt a hollow, crushing sense of defeat. He finally realized exactly where his companions from the Copper Horse Hotel had been taken. As Voluntin began lashing his wrists with rope, Cicero looked up at him, his eyes burning with one last flicker of defiance. "You think you’ve won? You don’t need me to say a word—the Land Administration Bureau will be here to investigate soon enough."

"Oh," Voluntin replied, his tone utterly devoid of interest, his only desire being to find a bed and sleep. Had it not been for Julius’s stubborn refusal to cut her distinct, long hair—which drew far too much suspicion—he would never have bothered dealing with this mess. Nearby, Barbara, who had initially been gripped by anxiety, saw Voluntin’s indifference and felt her own heart settle. If her companions weren't worried, surely there was no cause for fear.

"Let’s return to our previous topic," Clayton said, his voice low as he addressed the attendant. "Tell me exactly when you found William."

"It was shortly after the end of this summer," the attendant replied, his eyes reflecting a mix of melancholy and dedication. "His fur was like liquid silk, and his eyes burned with a fire I’ve never seen in a living beast. We truly believed he would become a legendary guardian." In the ancient folklore of Dornish culture, black hounds with radiant, burning eyes were revered as spirits of protection, destined to escort the souls of the dead to their final rest, whether in the kingdom of heaven or the depths of hell. The attendant felt a sharp, bitter sense of betrayal by the creature he had once cherished.

Clayton sat down on a moss-covered rock under the cool shade of a tree to rest his aching legs. He was growing dangerously impatient. It wasn't the work in the cemetery that bothered him; it was the gnawing suspicion that Julius and Barbara might botch the tasks he had entrusted to them. He was desperate to inspect their methods and see if they had actually delivered results.

"My nose tells me everything," Clayton muttered. "Something was wrong with him from the start. I’ve never encountered a dog with such deep, inherent sadness. Try calling his name again—perhaps a familiar voice will draw him out."

The attendant gave a weary shrug. "We’ve tried that countless times, to no avail. Why don't you try your way?"

"And what 'way' would that be?" Clayton asked, his brow furrowed.

"The howling method. It should be the same instinct. Perhaps—and I mean this with the utmost respect—communicating in a shared tongue might be more effective than me just shouting a name." The attendant spoke with extreme caution, terrified of sparking Clayton’s temper again.

"Too bad," Clayton said with a sigh. "I don’t possess that kind of communication. I am a werewolf converted from a normal human, and my voice hasn't shifted significantly. Perhaps the 'Dark Moon' gifted me some influence to help me connect with these specific creatures, but it’s purely sensory—a matter of scent and presence."

"You haven’t tried howling to bridge the gap," the attendant insisted, displaying an unexpected stubbornness rooted in his own unwavering beliefs. "You won't know if you can succeed until you try."

Clayton caught the attendant’s eye, and he felt a sudden, rare flicker of hesitation. This brand of dogmatic, truth-seeking persistence was fading away in the younger generation. He decided he shouldn't be the one to back down. After a few seconds of internal debate, he finally said, "Fine. Cover your ears."

The attendant complied with a look of quiet relief. Clayton turned his back, closing his eyes to summon the faint, haunting memories of the wolf howls he had heard near the mountain pastures during his youth. He focused every ounce of his spirit into his throat, feeling the tension rise.

"Awoooooo—!"

The sound didn't just escape him; it exploded outward, rippling through the air. A sudden gust of wind whipped up around him, flattening the tall grass and causing the leaves of the ancient Yew forest to shiver in a rhythmic, clattering chorus. He prayed that no passing soul would hear the sound, yet deep down, he couldn't deny the rush of power—a strange, wild grandeur that stirred his very blood.

"Is that enough?" the attendant asked from behind, his hands finally dropping from his ears. But Clayton didn't answer. His gaze was locked on the dense, shadowed bushes to his side, where the air was suddenly displaced by a "living wind"—the telltale sign of a massive object in motion. The sharp, cloying stench of decay and earth grew potent, filling his lungs. As the black hound surged from the emerald greenery, Clayton’s breath hitched. Looking at the sheer, terrifying scale of its head, it was immediately clear that this was no mere dog; it was a creature of mythic proportions. The attendant punched the air in triumph, his fatigue forgotten as he gave chase. Clayton scrambled up from the rock and followed suit.

They sprinted through the Yew forest, their boots crunching over brittle branches and rotted leaves. Thanks to his werewolf physiology, Clayton felt a sudden, exhilarating lightness, clearing the natural obstacles with effortless leaps. The attendant, however, lacked the physical conditioning for such a frantic pace and was quickly left trailing in the distance.

The giant black hound finally skidded to a halt. It glanced back at Clayton, its expression remarkably deep and meaningful, as if it had been intentionally guiding him to this spot. Clayton felt a chill of genuine shock at the intelligence smoldering in those eyes. He observed the tail again—it didn't hang limp like a canine’s, but possessed the rigid, powerful set of a giant wolf. That the church staff and the visiting pilgrims had missed such an obvious anomaly was a testament to the city’s creeping ignorance of the natural world.

The black wolf sniffed the ground, dug its claws into a previously disturbed patch of earth, and pulled out a piece of dry, stale bread—most likely a remnant from a holy communion ritual. It trotted toward Clayton, stopping a few paces away before placing the offering on the ground.

As the overpowering odor of rot grew closer, Clayton reflexively retreated, utterly bewildered by the gesture. Observing his hesitation, the wolf dipped its massive head, nudging the hard bread toward his feet with its long, wet snout. Clayton realized what was happening, his voice dropping to a whisper of pure astonishment. "Are you... giving this to me?"

To his utter disbelief, the wolf didn't just act like a human; it spoke with the gravelly, resonant tone of one:

"Weren't you the one howling about being hungry just a moment ago?"