I awoke to Alfred hustling me; a dour expression marked my face as I rose from my leaning by the window, climbing down the dusty ladders and landing in the workshop. They are waiting by the fireplace, he said, rushing out the door, a strange blade and an even stranger firearm in his hands. It was remarkable how quick he disappeared from view after egressing the door.
I drifted to the common room and a hearth that had not been there before was lit, firewood hissing as it was consumed by the flames. It gave off warmth that I had not found in the house, its flickering and dancing beautiful as any danseuse's performance would have been.
"Sit down, Mr. Diggory." Alice says, eyeing me closely. "We have much to talk about."
I slump on a chair near the fireplace. Alice sits in front of me, the invalid on the wooden chair. "Yes, what is it?"
"Virgil," she says and looks at him, "and I have decided. You will now leave the Sanctuary. The hunt has now begun but you have yet to slay the ghouls in the city."
"But I lack preparations!" I stand up, voice raised. The flames seem to grow along with my vexation. "I will get killed"
"Preparations. Wouldn't it be nice if life gave us time to prepare?" Virgil mused. His eyes stare at the hearth, perhaps as amazed as I was at the movement of the fire. "But you must do this if you desire to leave this dream
The smell of soot and ash lingered in the air; as do my disapproval of the decision. I do not agree. "I am sorry but—"
I freeze. The words do not continue. I cannot continue to speak. My body is still, and so is my tongue.
"Forgive us," Virgil said. He motioned for Alice to do something and the ash-blonde nodded. "It is for your own good. You may return only in death or through the orbs."
What? My face paints. You will see, he said.
The house flipped over, wall and floor and I rise from my chair, body lifted as light as a feather. Alice. Her fingers were moving about in a strange way, and her face was contorted in concentration. She flicked her fingers and I flew away from the hearth, crashing into the mahogany which I thought would hurt but was as harmful to my well-being as a feather was. Into the workshop. Out the front door. Into Yarim.
The cement of the street is cold on my face, filthy rainwater streams in my mouth and I cough and spit, endeavoring to remove the taste of the gravelly puddle. My clothes are wet. My clothes. They are not the ones I wore during my stay in the house. I look behind me and the house which I had been thrown out of was not there. There was no dull moment with these people.
My eyes flicked from building to building in the city, each appearing gloomier than the last; my gaze lands on my reflection in the puddle: a grey duster coat had replaced my frock and vest. It reminded me of Mr. Ludwig (who was bestowed title of Van Helsing for slaying vampires though there was no evidence of it) and his peculiar sense of fashion. Brown boots. Gauntlets.
Here I was, unarmed and clueless, about to fight ghouls that had been directly transplanted from my nightmares. It would be quite funny if a ghoul would coincidentally come—
A howl. Balderdash. I mutter curses aimed at God, if there was, as well as Virgil and Ms. Alice. All of them related with genitalia. I focus on hearing where it comes from. Two streets ahead. Sprinting towards my direction. I do not know how I could do it but a strange tugging in my stomach told me what the right thing to do was. I followed. Deses. Orkos.
Despair. Oathbreaker. A flintlock and a blade appear in my hands. One street now. My grip tightens on the pistol, smooth walnut in my palms, and the blade, a saber that glinted the silver of the moonlight. I remember the bullet lodged in my chest. I feel faint. The sound of broken pavement. It had all the viciousness of a wolf yet it stood tall as a man; its eyes swam in milky white, canines jutting out like unfitting bricks that were smeared in fresh blood. Its body was a bulky frame of grey fur illuminated by the moonlight, claws as sharp as knives were ready to kill. I wasn't. My stomach dropped at the sight of the werewolf. I tried to stand firm but my knees shook, knowing full well a human should not be trying to fight a werewolf. I remember. I was no longer human.
"Cussed creature, I'll show you…uh…" I do not find words. A failure.
I lunge at the collection of muscle and fur; it lunges too, a vigorous scream escaping it. My sword meets its claws; I boot it in the face and it lets another howl. Annoyed, perhaps. I ready my flintlock but the werewolf is fast. It knocks the pistol out of my hands and grazes my cheek with a swipe. I am left with my sword and the buildings around me. I do not know what to do. Dratted beast! I lunge with my sword; I am not skilled with it as my father had so often said but the tugging in my stomach teaches me along the way. I dance with the beast. I lunge, it falls back a step, the slither of silver creasing a smolder on it chest. It is enraged.
It tries to snatch the sword. My body spins on its own, dodging the barbaric lunge. My riposte: a blade to the face. It screams in pain. Another smolder. The smell of burnt fur mixes in with its putrid breath. It gobs a sickly green that dissolves the puddle-ridden pavements, the gas prickling my skin. I swallow a hefty amount of saliva.
The skirmish was a struggle for dominance, neither one of us, man or beast, gaining a clear advantage. A scratch. A pierce. A stab. A kick. My body was bruised and wounded just as badly as any ghoul would have lasted. The werewolf was on its last surge of strength too; I was sure of that. Its breathing had become shallow and sped up, chest heaving up and down as did the cuts and smolders my sword had left.
I try to collect my breath. My eyes shut close for a moment. Idiot. I hear the unmistakable roar of the werewolf and my back hits the pavement. My body screams in pain. The sword tumbles from my hands. I believe it is the end. The werewolf pins me, its drool falls, hitting the pavement near my right ear. It burns. I see the flintlock and my stomach tugs. I summon a last surge of strength and shove the werewolf, the creature burying itself into the cement of a lit house. Gasps. People? I thought. But my body does not hesitate. Dive. Aim. Fire. The spark emerges and I feared it might not hit. My eyes watched the bullet creeping its way toward the ghoul's head. My aim is true.
I lean against the cement of the house, wondering if it had not hit. My wounds were shallow but numerous, most fatal attacks avoided by the dropping of something in my stomach. The world went dizzy and spew comes from my lips, the pang of acid strong on my lips. It smelt the same as the burning drool of the werewolf and I wondered if it was due to my being a ghoul. It did not dissolve the pavement however and that gladdened me. A bit of humanity left.
A few oil lamps appear from my left, "Who goes there?" a voice asks. People. A citizen of Yarim.