It wasn't long before that darkness came knocking. I was doing a patrol along the docks when out of the clear night air I hear a wolf howl. The sound was eerie as somewhere within it you could make out a man screaming.
I ran as fast as I could towards the scream. But there was nothing, the dock had fallen to a deathly quiet.
From the darkness a voice spoke. "You heard it too, did you Darknight?" before the old man had a chance to blink, I was pointing both my 45's at him. "Hey easy, easy now I'm just an old man." He said. "I work as a night watchman around here." He motioned to a nearby shack. "Let's talk in there."
His tea tasted like the Thames but he was a friendly old boy. "This place has become cursed." He said with a weary voice and rummaged through his pocket and brought out a slip of paper. "Found this earlier if it helps. Don't know what it says but..."
I took it and thanked the old man then decided to walk along the docks again. From each of the moored ships I saw scared sailors looking at me like lost children.
From one of the ships a sailor with gold teeth called out. "Stay indoors friend there's a werewolf about." I showed him my guns and walked on.
A woman's scream suddenly slashed the night air. I rushed to where the scream came from. But there was nothing except a pool of blood on the dockside cobbled floor. A rage of frustration burst within me. I was chasing nothing but a shadow.
I took the piece of paper the old man had found from my pocket and studied it. There was Russian hand writing on it. I searched my mind and remembered there was an old Russian Orthodox Church not 3 miles away. I drove there as fast as I could.
The priest opened the heavy oak door and looked at me through thick dark eyebrows and said. "Darknight, I have heard of you. You do the work of God. You may enter freely into my home."
I sat quietly in his study as he made tea. I hoped it didn't taste like the old man's did. From every wall there was a book shelf filled with old books and files. But above his fireplace there hung a single picture.
The mother of God.
The light from the fire gave it a warm safe feeling. I stared at it and wondered about the darkness. About the creatures that roamed London.
"My Grandfather painted it." Said a voice behind me. I turned to see the priest holding two cups of tea. "He said only desperate men and fools fall in love with her. As I get older, I think he may have been right."
He sat opposite me and handed me a hot cup of tea. "My name is Father Petrov; how may I be of help to the brave and noble Darknight?"
I handed the piece of paper over. He studied it deeply and said. "It is a blasphemous poem. Soaked in blood. It is written by a man consumed by pagan sprits."
He got up and handed back the paper. "He is what we call back in my country a D'yavol volk. A devil wolf."
He then walked over to a shelf and took down a small leather-bound book. He flicked through it quickly. "I take it you have seen the Hollywood films of werewolves?"
I said I had.
"All that Yankee rubbish of silver bullets." He stopped at a page. "Yes, I remember now. Yes, this thing that was once human that lives in the twilight of evil. It has a weakness Darknight."
I stood up. "What is it Father?"
"High frequency." he gave a smile. "It is scared of a whistle."
I thanked the priest and gave him some money for the poor.
As I drove home, I felt confused. This was all very new to me. I thought I would be fighting terrorists and gangsters. Rescuing some kids or whatever the hell a hero does.
But werewolves?