The watcher must employ some means in the sky.
Clayton fiddled with the stinking feather for a while and speculated that it must be from the trick of a wizard.
This sort of mysterious individual could summon those long-dead creatures back to life and view the world through their eyes.
He was greatly gratified by this. If the Holy Grail Society indeed hid like a turtle in its shell after the last watcher was done away with, Clayton would have run out of his tricks to deal with them.
Even though the new watcher was more exotic than Clayton imagined, his investigation was made easier.
If the observer was a human being, then he would undoubtedly be tinged with various smells as he had to interact with others. But in the case of a bird being the observer, its odor would be less complicated, mostly reflecting its owner's.
A single plume couldn't allow Clayton to collect its odor. What he needed was the entire bird.
Hiding behind a bush, Clayton took off his clothes and warmed himself up before shifting his shape.
His muzzle was extended, black hairs spilled out of his pores, his muscles swelled and gave off currents of hot air, and from his ankles, his stature was elevated.
A werewolf in its true form was no less large than a horse.
Clayton held the Conqueror up to his mouth with both hands and grabbed hold of it in his teeth as his snowy white fangs secured the barrel in place. Then, he got down on all fours and started galloping like a real wild beast, his brownish eyes glinting in the darkness like a bolt of lightning on the street.
At nighttime, hardly anyone, except for a small number of sheriffs, would be out on the streets, allowing Clayton to unleash himself in an unbridled manner.
To ensure that the watcher would not notice him, his route was across two streets from the hackney carriage's. The deserted lanes of his choosing ruled out the possibility of running into sheriffs.
Gushing winds brushed past Clayton's cheeks, his smooth ebony-dark hair, and his pointed ears at full sail.
In his vision, the sights to both sides of him, due to his staggering speed, almost converged on each other.
A werewolf was not essentially a wolf. Clayton's speed matched that of a war horse, while his stamina was superior. He was confident in arriving in St. Melon Parish before the horse-drawn carriage in his employ did.
As long as he could make his way to the mechanical clock tower near the Chief Constabulary ahead of time, he would be able to discover what entity was trailing him.
.........
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle...
Joe Mani bent down and picked a backup bullet up off the floor, stuffing it into his pocket.
Then, he sat back down on the bed and leaned against the wall, gazing out of the humble room through the window.
The room constituted all of his rented place, small and dilapidated, with a leaky ceiling, but it was probably, for the time being, the best place he could ask for.
His face remained in disguise as during the day. Each time he disguised his face, it would cost him over an hour, along with wax and glue; he didn't bother to remove the makeup, even during the night.
The cons were evident.
He scratched his face and planned to buy some mint ointment for treating heat rash after Clayton eliminated the Holy Grail Society.
As he fiddled with the revolver, he casually pulled out its cylinder and then slammed it back into place.
Actually, Joe was hardly good at using a gun.
But due to Clayton's reminder yesterday, he found himself somewhat fearful. Now, even while taking a shower and getting into bed, he would keep the revolver close to himself.
"Look out for the sky."
Joe felt creepy.
It sounded plausible that the birds trained by the Holy Grail Society could track people, which was the only explanation that he could come up with. However, how could it be like that?
He came back to Sasha City by train.
Could those whose brains were no larger than his fingertips actually be able to keep pace with the train? Regardless of this, how did a bird spot him in the crowded throng from the sky?
It was far-fetched to make such a conclusion.
A cold shiver ran up Joe's spine before he pressed the cylinder back.
He decided to turn in for the night.
He could rid his mind of these disturbing thoughts after falling asleep.
He swathed himself in a blanket and placed the pistol beneath his pillow, lying with his face to the wall. Then, he took out his pocket watch and began a countdown silently.
The alarm bell in St. Melon Parish, every quarter of an hour, would chime. In the quiet night, its ringing sounded more pronounced.
He hadn't been here for long, thus unaccustomed to such a noise. He had to pay attention to the timing. Only after the bell tolled, especially at the full hour, would he choose to drift into his slumber. Otherwise, it would dispel all his drowsiness.
He had developed this habit over the past four days.
The pocket watch's hand drew near nine. The moment the second hand came full circle, a familiar, booming ringing of the bell floated in from the window.
Clang---Clang--Clang---...
Bang!
The window close to Joe Mani's head burst into shards, scattering across the floor. Through the broken window, a strange thing flew in, its softness and liveliness unmistakable, emitting a repulsive stench.
Someone was shooting toward here!
He instantly sat up and grabbed hold of his revolver, alertly aiming it at the window. Then, he squatted down and walked over with his back to the wall.
The moonbeam shone in through the window above his head, allowing Joe to see clearly the object that had fallen into the room.
It's an earthly brown wing.
Its decaying odor assailed Joe's nostrils. At the tip of the wing, a miniature human hand was repeatedly clasping and relaxing.
All the strength had drained from Joe's legs as he collapsed to the ground on his backside. He raised his shuddering hand and aimed his pistol at the wing.
"What... the hell is this!!!"
............
Three minutes earlier.
Clayton was lying on his abdomen atop the clock tower, keeping his true form. He held the long rifle, its barrel swathed in black cloth, with his strong werewolf arms, aiming it at the end of the street.
The darkness enshrouded his figure.
He watched as the horse-drawn carriage in his employ emerged on the horizon and then slowly proceeded before entering Mercy Street.
Simultaneously, a shadowy form was quietly hovering above it.
He originally surmised that it was an owl or a red-footed falcon. Yet, the silhouette was almost the size of a normal human.
It had an eagle's body but a woman's head with disheveled long hair.
Because it was flying at the same height as the clock tower's rooftop, its rotten stench was carried in the air all the way to Clayton's nostrils.
It's a harpy.
To recognize it didn't require him to be well-versed in the occult world.
One of his textbooks when attending the grammar school, included excerpts from the mythological epics. Harpy, as a villain of a certain chapter, had a dedicated illustration.
Derived from a deity, harpies were cursed to eternal life, proficient in witchcraft, and prone to lies...
During King Liaexus's voyage to the Giant Island, the sailors were mesmerized by the harpy and steered the ship off course, going stray on the boundless ocean. The sailors didn't wake out of their reveries until Liaexus came back to his senses and shot a deadly copper-pointed arrow at it.
In short, it's a monster that once tricked an ancient king!
By comparison, a monster like a werewolf appeared less threatening.
"The Perpetually Rotting Daughter of the Deity..."
Clayton clenched his teeth and moved agilely on the rooftop to a spot well-suited for shooting. Then, he aimed the rifle at the fluttering shadowy form through its scope, waiting for the bell to be struck.
Even if it was a harpy, it couldn't stay unscathed after sustaining a bullet.
He had read the treatise 'Naturalism' by a renowned biologist, which stated that any flying species had jettisoned a lot of their weight during successive evolutionary stages. Easily broken bones were a price they had to pay for the ability to fly.
They were more vulnerable than other land-based creatures in the same weight class.
He had no idea what special ability the harpy possessed but was sure that he would be unaffected from across a distance of over a hundred meters.
The horse carriage pulled over at 214 Mercy Street.
The coachman, upfront in the driver's seat, called out twice yet elicited no responses.
The harpy didn't continue to hover overhead but perched on a nearby roof and tucked in its wings, motionless.
In the dimly lit night, it resembled a stone gargoyle overlooking a real gargoyle close by, a scene with no beholders.
The coach jumped out of the carriage and circled to the rear to find out about his customer, only to be met with Clayton's backup clothes.
Clang--clang---...
The driver might have had some misunderstandings and tossed those clothes out of the carriage. Then, he went back to the driver's seat in a flustered manner and held up the reins, urging the horse to bolt forward into the distance.
Surely, Clayton Bello was nowhere to be seen in the carriage.
The harpy eventually detected a trace of abnormality and exhibited confusion on its face. It fluttered its wings and swooped down, seemingly intent on chasing after the carriage to examine its inside.
All its behaviors, evoking a ballet dancer on the stage, were seen by Clayton in the Conqueror's scope.
Just as the three chimes rang out, Clayton pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was canceled out by the booming noises, while the rapidly spinning bullet, corrected by the refiling, exited the barrel and tore through the harpy's wing, shredding its tip apart.
After that, the bullet didn't come to a halt but shattered a window behind the harpy. Owing to the damage, the harpy lost its balance and uncontrollably thudded into the rear of the carriage.
The coachman sensed the vibration but didn't dare to look back. He reined the horse to quicken its gait before the vehicle vanished at the end of the street.
Grabbing hold of the rifle in his teeth, Clayton jumped down from the tower, raising a cloud of dust as his four limbs landed on the ground.
The harpy seemed to have lost its consciousness upon the earlier collision. It was now lying flat in the street.
Staring at its human head, Clayton believed that there existed a possibility of communicating with it.
As his bristling wolf hairs withdrew into his body, he returned to his human form before dressing himself with the backup clothes. Despite the repulsive stench, he held the harpy in one hand and the rifle in the other while walking toward 214 Mercy Street.
He softly knocked on the door with the toe of his shoe.
"Joe, it's me."
The room was lit up.