Song of the Street Wolf

For Now, I Am Winter

Days past. The air grew colder yet, winds from the far, far north coming down to chill the city to its core. Many days it snowed instead of rained. When the temperature rose enough to allow the water not to freeze, it did not last long. The puddles that pooled on the cracked and broken streets soon turned to ice once more. Even the crows did not come out of their nests for long.

On the dawn before the ritual, the mood around John's home was as desolate as the coming day. Mercy and John silently prepared their weapons, and Bone paced restlessly about, ready for the battle that he knew was to come.

Bone's fur was fluffed up in response to the cold, and John had donned as many flannels as possible while retaining his dexterity. He had also graciously let Mercy borrow another flannel, which she wore gratefully over her longsleeved black shirt. And, of course, she wore her now-signature padded rain jacket.

"It's a cold one," she sighed. "Hand me the whetstone."

John grabbed a handheld blade sharpener off the counter of the kitchenette and tossed it to her. "It's not a whetstone. It's just a knife sharpener."

Mercy ran her combat knife through the contraption several times, and then tested its edge against the tip of her finger. A small, almost imperceptible bead of blood welled up in response. It had been sharpened to her satisfaction.

"It'll do," said Mercy. She offered the sharpener to John, who shook his head.

"I'm good," he said, shaking his head. His machete was honed finely to a razor's edge and it thirsted for blood as much as he who wielded it.

"Today's the day," she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. John pretended she was successful.

"It is," he confirmed. "It's now or never. Do or die." He was afraid, and he couldn't imagine how Mercy must be feeling. She was only a teenager, not even two decades old. She had seen barely anything of the wonder of life, and now she was only seeing the brutal parts of it.

"It's about to get real."

Mercy's use of John's old catchphrase brought back memories that he hadn't really pondered. Him flipping burgers, salting french fries, manning a cash register, answering phones. He missed his restaurant more than realised. He missed all his employees, he missed the day to day troubles that came with owning a business. He missed his old life...

Not the life that was filled with cold and rain, with blood and death, with gnawing hunger and burning cigarettes.

'But this is the life that God has given me,' though John. 'And I will live it.'

"Mercy, Bone and I are going to take a walk to the top of the building."

Mercy understood; John needed to meditate, to take a few moments to reflect on the situation at hand. She too planned on doing that, but she was going to roam the back alleys around John's home. The girl nodded, "Alright. I'm taking a walk as well."

John shouldered his machete, "We'll call when we're ready."

"Yes sir."

***

The cold, dank stairwell bore no windows, and unnatural, almost complete darkness pressed down around John and Bone as the two padded upwards. John knew the way to the roof by muscle memory, and Bone knew by scent.

John's calves burned by the time they reached the door that led to the roof of the apartment building, but he knew that it would soon recede. He was greeted by a gust of wind that blew through the door as it opened. The wind murmured a greeting; the greeting was cold and unwelcoming.