Werewolf Of FeverPeak

Chapter 18: Lonny's little secret

The house loomed in front of them, an old Victorian relic that had long been abandoned to the elements. Its once grand facade was chipped and cracked, vines creeping up the walls, suffocating the remaining structure. Crowley and the Scarecrow approached in silence, the weight of unspoken tension thick between them. Crowley moved with the ease of someone who had been here before, while Scarecrow trailed behind, his eyes darting to the shadows, always scanning.

The door creaked as Crowley pushed it open, the stale air hitting them immediately-dust, mold, and something else that lingered underneath. They stepped inside, their footsteps echoing through the barren halls. The house was empty, just like it had been the last time Crowley had investigated it. Or so he thought.

"We check the rooms, then get out," Crowley muttered as they made their way through the narrow hallways.

They reached the master bedroom, the only place left untouched during the initial investigation. The room was large, filled with dust-covered furniture and an old bed that sagged under the weight of time. Scarecrow's sharp eyes flicked across the room before resting on a strange engraving above the fireplace.

"Crowley," Scarecrow called, his voice low and even. "What's this?"

Crowley walked over, his eyes narrowing as he examined the faint etching carved into the stone. He hadn't noticed it before, and judging by the detective's reports, neither had they.

"I think the detectives skipped over this," Crowley said, more to himself than to Scarecrow.

"Weren't *you* the lead detective?" Scarecrow's voice dripped with confusion, his tone edged with amusement.

"Yeah," Crowley muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's a different language though."

Scarecrow moved closer, his shadow stretching long in the dim light. He glanced at the engraving, then back at Crowley, his tone flat as he spoke. "It says 'Lonny Jenson.'"

Crowley stared at him, his brow furrowed. "How do you know?"

Scarecrow began walking toward the door, not waiting for a reply. "It's Nordic."

Crowley watched him walk away, his mind racing. Lonny Jenson-he knew that name. The pieces were falling into place, but not fast enough. As they made their way back through the house, Crowley's gut told him they were running out of time.

The moment they stepped outside, Scarecrow stopped in his tracks, his gaze snapping upward. Crowley followed his line of sight, spotting bright bursts of color exploding in the sky above them-fireworks. The vibrant lights illuminated the night sky, casting long shadows across the yard.

"Crowley," Scarecrow said, his voice sharp, "what's going on?"

Crowley's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "Shit," he hissed. "Let's go. It's his feeding grounds."

Without another word, they bolted toward Crowley's motorcycle and scarecrow teleporting leaving behind remnants of himself , the cold night air biting at their skin as they ran. The distant echo of laughter and celebration followed them as they raced toward the inevitable.