The Moon, The Maker

“Olly? Wake up, we’re here.” 

I sat up groggily, as disoriented as always, “Whah…Huh? Where...” I stuttered.

“Colorado, remember? The sighting by that B n’ B?” 

I peeled my face from the passenger side window, before rolling it down to get a better look at where we were. Sean turned onto the street the GPS indicated, and parked crookedly in front of an ancient white house. The paint was peeling off the siding, hydrangea clung to the southernmost wall. 

“Rustic,” he noted. I glanced outside to see he’d taken up nearly two full parking spots. He’d never admit to it, but he’s a terrible driver. Unfortunately for both of us, I had to get a few hours of rest on those long excursions, so that occasionally left him behind the wheel. We got out, pulled our luggage from the trunk of the Volvo, and headed inside.

“Welcome to Wanda and Patrick’s!” the hostess, presumably Wanda, exclaimed, with a strong mid-western accent. “You two the wildlife experts sent out to handle whatever’s been killing our chickens?” She gestured with unsettlingly long acrylic nails at the lanyards we each had around our necks showing our Wilderness Conservation I.D.s. 

“That we are, ma’am,” I assured. “I’m Oliver Weinstead and this is my partner Sean Feroz.” Sean stood behind me forebodingly, like a bodyguard. He’d never really been much of a people person, which left me to pick up most of the charismatic slack.

“Why don’t you fill us in a bit more about what you’ve been seeing?” I asked, flashing my most debonair smile. Wanda looked around cautiously for a moment, though it appeared as if no one else was in the lobby, before gesturing for us to get closer. We hesitantly crept up to the front desk. 

“I’ve actually never seen it,” she began, brushing the greying black hair from her forehead. “But our kitchen staff have. The window above the sink overlooks the chicken coop, so they’ve been getting a front row seat. I believe the first one to catch a glimpse was our dish- washer, Ivan. I sent the poor kid out back to take out the trash, then he heard the chickens causing a ruckus. He went over to check it out. Next thing I knew he came running back inside, spooked as all hell. Said he saw something climb into the chicken coop, grab a few of our fattest hens, and run back into the woods.”

“Probably just a coyote that’s gotten a bit too comfortable around humans,” Sean interrupted, his expression one of boredom and disappointment. 

“That’s what I thought too,” Wanda continued, her eyes sparkling with a curious fire. “But Ivan said he saw the thing unlatch the door to the coop itself.” 

Sean and I glanced at each other when she said that, our faces conveying that we shared the same thought, maybe this is our kind of job after all. 

Sean and I aren’t just your everyday Wilderness Conservationists. We’re part of a very… ‘alternative branch,’ the Lupinotuum Pectinem. Basically, we hunt what the public commonly knows as “werewolves.” The L.P. is very exclusive when it comes to hiring employees, meaning you have to have some former experience with the ferocious fur balls in order to be accepted. I was attacked in middle school, though luckily not on a full moon, or I would have been turned. Sean’s sister was killed by one when he was in high school. We both lived our lives believing we were crazy, until we were elected to join the L.P. That’s actually where we met. 

We were trained to hunt together. Trained to put down those infected with Lycanthropy if they began to cause a scene around civilians. We’re not murderers, or hunters, but if a Lycanthrope steps out of line we do what we must. When the animal side takes control of the human, there’s really nothing else you can do. That’s what we were told anyway. That’s also around the time when we started dating. Yeah, I know, werewolf hunting class doesn’t seem like the most romantic setting, but neither of us really cared. We were young, so first love hit faster than a Semi. 

We’d been doing house calls for nearly two years at that point, going wherever the higher-ups at the L.P. assigned us to assess the situation and take action if need be. It was practically second nature to us. But the case in Colorado ended up becoming far more complicated than either of us ever anticipated. 

Wanda led us up to the room we’d be staying in to wait for nightfall. It was rustic, cozy, with an iron bed frame and sun-bleached curtains.

“So, what do you want to do to pass the time?” I asked suggestively, taking my boots off and slinking onto the bed. Sean rolled his eyes, but took off his shirt nonetheless. Before long we were both blushing and winded. I curled into his side like a cat, looking up at him drowsily. His hair lay ruffled about his head on the pillow, like a black halo. His olive skin rose and fell rhythmically as he caught his breath, the tattoos lacing his arms and chest dancing with the beat. He turned and placed a kiss on my forehead.

“Guess you still got it, old man,” I teased, brushing some dark wayward locks from his face. 

“Olly, we’re thirty.” 

“I know, practically dinosaurs!” He shoved me off with a chuckle. After all those years, his laugh still got to me. It was deep, yet uncontrolled, like that of a child. I rarely heard it, but it was well worth the wait every time that I did. 

Sean glanced out the window. 

“I’m gonna take a shower. We still have a few hours to kill. Care to join me?” 

“I thought you’d never ask,” I answered, already scampering into the bathroom. 

We spent the next couple hours familiarizing ourselves with the terrain in the daylight, exploring the property surrounding the B n’ B. We masked our scent with pine cologne Sean had found in Maine, which usually worked like a charm. Lycanthropes still have parts of their human intelligence and skill while changed, like the ability to unlatch the chicken coop, so we still had to be careful to leave no evidence or risk spooking it away. 

When the sun finally started to dip behind the hills, we wandered back to the house and waited for moonrise. 

“Wanda said it usually doesn’t come out until around midnight,” I whispered to Sean as we went inside. 

“We should still be prepared. I don’t want to miss our chance,” he said, moving his coat a bit to show me the handgun he had strapped to his waist. “And remember, it’s a full moon, I don't want any accidents.”

“Hey, we have to be sure before we go around shooting things. I don’t want to have to explain why we killed something on the endangered species list like last time,” I reminded him. He rolled his eyes, but pulled his coat back down. Even he was apprehensive at the idea of another lecture. 

We asked the kitchen staff to let us know if they saw or heard anything from outside, and passed the time by playing cards in front of the fire in the den. When Sean lost for the fourth time in a row, I knew his head wasn’t in it. 

“You ok?” I asked, resting my hand over his. 

“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I just have a bad feeling is all.” 

“It’ll be fine. We do this all the time,” I chided, before dealing again. 

“You’re right,” Sean conceded, but he still looked distant, dark eyes hooded in thought. I desperately wish I’d trusted his instincts. 

At around 11:30 pm, the dishwasher, Ivan, scampered over to us. The kid looked maybe sixteen if not younger, but the bags under his eyes appeared to belong to a far older man. He was skittish, and fear turned his slight stature rigid. 

“Uh, we heard some-something, by the d-dumptsers,” he stammered. As we followed him to the kitchen, Sean’s hand flew to the gun in his waistband. I locked eyes with him before we went out the back door, and we exchanged the same silent promise we always did before a mission. Come back safe. I turned the knob, and we headed towards the dumpsters.

We heard rustling and clanging before we even got close, which meant this one either didn’t care about masking its presence, or didn’t know how. Luckily for us, we did, and with the noise and the pine cologne we were practically invisible. I glanced at the full moon rising above us. Missions at this time are far more dangerous than others. Not only are Lycanthropes more volatile, but their bite becomes truly infectious. Still, we had a job to do, a bed and breakfast to save, so I steeled myself and continued.

When we got up close, I signaled to Sean to stand behind me as backup while I went on ahead. I was the explorer, he the enforcer. I crept forward until I was beside the dumpster, then craned my neck to see what exactly was attempting to make its own one-man percussion section. The beast had a plump, rounded back, grey coat, and a tail encircled in black stripes. 

“Damnit. Sean, it’s just a raccoon,” I said, turning to look at him. The look on his face was not what I’d expected. He looked shaken, still as a statue, and he kept his eyes trained on the dumpsters at my back. 

“Did you hear me? I said it's just a…”

“Olly, don’t move.” His words sent fear running along my spine. A deep, guttural growl rumbled behind me. I stood completely still, watching as Sean pulled the gun from his belt. 

“Oh shit!” Cruel, blade-like claws plunged into my back. Sean cocked the gun and fired as I rolled to the side. The creature yelped, releasing me. Sean had at least clipped it. I turned to see Sean had locked eyes with it. They both looked as if they were frozen in time, like a picture from a children's book. The hero and the monster. Yet the picture was far from that simple. It was not the tail of a knight and a dragon, but rather one of a soul versus another soul. Both human, just one wearing a fur coat and tripping on the worst drug of their life. The other broke the image by raising the gun in his hand.