Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twenty

Charlie clunked his three-quarters-full glass down heavily, drawing my attention to the papers with a spray of whiskey landing on the crowd. The paper soaked it up sponge-like, making a trail for another glimpse of the mysterious long-haired bloke—a haunting from Skip's past. My hand shook, trying to understand, feeling I wasn't connecting with what I'd been told. Daydreaming, lost in a haze, wondering what the hell is happening.

Who was I? They had turned my world upside down; I remembered very little of my childhood as it was, but now it seems I know even less. To hear that there could be a terrifyingly valid reason rocked me. Going back nine months, I would've dismissed it all. Pass it off as nonsense. That's the past. My nightmares have been telling me a preview of a story.

Thanks to Skip, that story begins at the start of his career. The bone-jarring sound of heavy iron chains rattled in the darkness, crashing loudly onto concrete. I'd thought of them as the ghosts of Christmas past. Now, they're the ghostly sounds of my past.

The tale was too detailed not to be true, backed by the newspapers, and Skip had had plenty of time to be sure. We've worked together a few years now, and he's helped me get over Helen's death. He did that, knowing what he did. Why hadn't he told me sooner? Were they playing me for a fool? Did Skip want me on the borough to watch over me for other reasons? That had to be why he didn't seem so surprised when I told him what I'd been experiencing.

I wanted more proof, but I wouldn't get it from these two; I'd settle for another point of view, with one person in mind who'd been cryptically warning me. He could end up being a crucial piece on the board. Whether he'll give the right answers right now or even straight ones remains to be seen.

That aside, I was bothered by something else. Dalton told me to worry about Charlie. I had that in mind when I summoned him, but the curve ball I got when it turned out he knew more than me already. It has me questioning who to believe.

The former turns up bearing gifts. An old box with no lock or handle, only Latin lettering. Was Charlie given it? Or a lie? Until I could be sure of everything, there was no way I was attempting to open it yet. My head spun with a harsh reality circling my brain; deep down, Skip must hate me.

"Did you find her?" I snap into Skipper's reminiscing, breaking out of procrastination.

"No, lad, I tried. Over the years, there had been clues and whispers. But until now, she's still in the wind."

"Skip, you mentioned Hannah; I realise mother's name; did you tell her about Mathew?" Charlie's eyes dart to Skip, who begins fidgeting with his empty glass and looking toward the bottle. I'd slapped a nerve. What else didn't I know? It had to be more about Mathew.

"He's dead, lad; as I told you, his true colours came out, and he met with an unfortunate ending. One of a few along the..." Sweat dribbled down Skip's forehead and Charlie's, too. All Skip had done was state the obvious and avoid my question.

How would Charlie know any of that old stuff? He was a few years older than me, coming later to the home, and Mathew wasn't around. So, how would he know of his existence? Something didn't add up. There were too many secrets, something my dear old foster brother was equally guilty of. The more the day has worn on, the more I've heard; I've watched his behaviour; he's been acting off.

'Brrrr, Brrrr, Brrrr, Brrrr,'

The house phone interrupts; at a good time, Skip jumps up, seeming grateful for the distraction. It was also my chance to make excuses and visit that 'keep your friends close and enemies closer.'

"Hello,"

"Yeah, it's me. What happened?"

"Flippin' heck, not again. Okay, I will be in as soon as I've had a coffee to shake off the cobwebs." That's all I heard before Skip put the phone down. His hand was back to normal, a little shaky; other than that, he was okay, brushing it down his face. He was being called back in; the look on his face told me it wasn't good. Charlie remained emotionless, wide-eyed, glaring at the bottle.

"Everything okay?" I already knew what the answer would be.

"There's a body, a bad one,"

"Isn't that CID territory?"

"Normally? Yes. But this affects us; It's being dragged from the Thames. Throat has been torn through,"

"How does that affect us?"

"That anonymous call seeing your car dumping a body-shaped bag," I'd almost forgotten that, blurred by the other issues. But the blood was passed off as an animal.

"Yeah, but the blood in my car wasn't human?"

"No. But until the coroner can give an accurate time of death. All roads lead to you,"

"Yeah, and I'm sure that would be convenient for everyone?" My mouth ran away without thinking, making Skip's jaw drop open, turning to face me.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do we want this? Is any of it? Oh...you think we're setting you up? Listen to yourself, you bloody idiot. Fucking ridiculous," Skip flipped, face turning red; I'd pissed him off. If he was acting, it was bloody good.

"You know what, Skip? Right now, I'm not bloody sure of anything. I haven't had a decent sleep in months. Fucked up dreams. I black out and wake with blood under my nails. You drop this bombshell. I was drugged, and somebody shot Chris in case I've missed anything. Now, another body has turned up in the Thames. And I'm being made to look guilty," I fired back, feeling a frightened, freaked-out mess.

"Hey... Calm down, okay? We're all on the same side. Yes, I'm pissed and carry tons of baggage, but that's not on you. A kid can't be blamed for the crap he can't control. You didn't ask for any of it. Since then, I've tried to keep you safe from afar; you might not like how my motives sounded, but I thought that keeping a distance and guiding you with little prompts until I could bring you close would save the trouble. The past was going to come out, eventually; we have more to contend with than most,"

"Yeah, but how did you know I would join the police? What made you so sure? All the talk of what's inside waiting to come out, what is it? Why do I black out? Could I be killing and not remembering? Like the body they've just found?"

It couldn't be me, could it? Even if I felt sure that was the case, the memory was blank and waking up in the car didn't help. The evidence road was being engineered towards me. I needed space and a chance to clear my head, but I needed to be safe with no more trouble.

"That was where your mum came in; we figured a structure and extended family would benefit you. A friend in training school owed me a favour. Hence, you came to this borough. The other crap, well... I had them, too; I often woke up at bus stops. Sometimes naked, bruised, broken all over, and never recalling how I got there. I figured it was that side of me taking over. We're two things... I mean entities in one, each fighting for control. One is a potential killing machine—the amount of research I've done over the years. I keep coming back to the conclusion. We're shapeshifters,"

Skip knew more. Dropping one bomb after another. Answers were needed and pushed him hard; a part of me wishes I hadn't. Never would I have imagined what he told me.

"Are you sure? I mean, is that what this is? We need to know more; I don't want to be a danger to anyone,"

"We won't let that happen; that's why we've been keeping you close, to be safe until we can handle what comes." Skip's red face eased and made sense.

"What do you mean 'we've,' both of you? This doesn't seem right, though, having to hide and be secretive; we need to be out there looking for the actual killer and then focus on the other stuff. It feels like no one else is trying."

"I've got to play nice while trying to keep my shit together. So, I expect you to do the same."

My mind returns to the image of a claw sliding from his finger under the moonlight. To think he must keep a lid on that; how it was even possible defied my imagination. Then I got to thinking, putting together some dots.