Chapter II

Gray dawn broke over Barrowham. The alleyway near O'Leary's reeked of blood. A small, horrified crowd was held back by police. "So much blood…" a woman sobbed. 

"Move aside!" Daniels yelled, pushing through the crowd. 

The alley opened up, revealing Mayor Mikkelson, the newly minted town mayor of three weeks, balding and bespectacled, stroking his chin. "Doctor, thanks for coming." 

"What happened?" Watters asked, his eyes taking in the gruesome scene. "Daniels said it was a child?" 

Blood stained the cobblestones crimson, mixed with bits of flesh. A child's broken and scattered limbs lay amidst the gore. 

"Hilda Jaspert," Chief Gordon said, his voice heavy. "She was out for a midnight stroll…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. 

"Hilda?" Watters whispered, his face paling. 

Gordon, a large, bearded veteran, looked sick. "I've seen combat, Doc, but this…" 

"How…?" Watters muttered, turning away. 

"Two boys found her," Mikkelson said. "They were out fishing. Heard something… instead of some drunk, they found this." 

"They were terrified," Gordon said. "Kept babbling about a werewolf. The kids were shaking like leaves." 

"Poor kids," Watters murmured, frowning. "Her parents…George and Clara? Do they know?" 

"Yes," Gordon said, his voice strained. 

Watters looked around, disturbed. "A werewolf…that's what they told you?" 

"Yes," Mikkelson scoffed. "Some silly story about werewolves and bad children." 

"I've heard whispers of it," Gordon said. "Given the brutality and all...and there's been some strange disappearances--" 

"Nonsense," Watters snapped, a hint of anger in his voice. "A wild dog, hell, maybe a stray wolf. But 'Werewolves'. Come now Daniels. The Lycans were vanquished ages ago. You and I were in that very war against the cryptids! You need to stick your nose less in children's stories and more on the facts. This 'werewolf' talk…it's disrespectful. You can't be serious?" 

"Look, I'm not saying I believed it, I just—" Daniels started, but Mikkelson cut him off. "Enough, Daniels. This town has enough tall tales floating around, we don't need one more about a werewolf. Doctor, what do you need?" 

Watters's gaze swept over the carnage. The sight triggered a wave of memories – the dead soldier, the metallic tang of blood, the feeling of helplessness. He blinked, forcing them back. 

"Doctor? Are you alright?" Mikkelson asked, touching his arm. 

"Yeah," Watters said, his voice tight. "Just… bag the remains when you're finished here." 

"Right," Daniels said, turning to the crowd. "Back! Get back! Let the investigators through!" 

Mikkelson kept his hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Watters," he said, his tone reassuring, "I'll inform The Order. I know about your past. Let them handle this." 

"It's…it's Order protocol for me to perform the autopsy, Mayor. I…" Watters began, but Mikkelson interrupted. "I know, but this is just too…too awful." 

"Sir, I have to," Watters insisted. "If The Order finds out…" 

"I understand," Mikkelson said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "If you need anything, just call." 

Watters nodded absently. What happened to you, Hilda? he thought, watching the investigators move in, snapping pictures of the scene. "Werewolves," he muttered under his breath, a dismissive scoff escaping him. "Poppycock." 

Stars emerged over Barrowham, cold and indifferent. Snow whispered from the pines, a deceptive peace settling over the town. Watters's grip tightened on his bourbon glass, the condensation a cold echo of the sweat beading on his brow. He drank, the bourbon a momentary flicker of warmth against the icy dread that gripped him. His eyes, however, wouldn't leave Hilda Jaspert's remains: the severed foot, the gnawed arm, the ear, the blood-matted hair—a brutal testament to savagery. The arm still bled, the crimson stain spreading across the table. A bucket stood ready to receive the gruesome offering. 

"Hilda Jaspert. Age nine. Blood type O-positive." The words were hollow, devoid of meaning. He looked at the folder. A sob caught in his throat. "Congenital acromicria…" The diagnosis felt like a cruel joke. Tears flowed unchecked. "Poor, poor girl…" he choked out. 

His mind reeled, the girl's broken body superimposed with images of war, a nightmarish tapestry of violence. He emptied his glass, seeking solace in the amber liquid. 

He wiped his eyes, the gesture mechanical. A job to do, he reminded himself, pushing the grief aside. He opened a drawer, retrieving his surgeon's kit, the brown leather worn smooth with use. 

He laid the kit on the table and lifted the arm. Bite marks, upper bicep. Consistent with a large animal. Dog? Wolf? His mind cataloged the details: Pale skin, likely due to blood loss. No other obvious injuries. 

He carefully lowered the arm and picked up the severed foot. All toes intact. Skin pale. His internal examination continued: Severed at the ankle. Wounds consistent with large animal bites. Wound channel… He paused, leaning closer. "Wait a second," he murmured. A small, gray tuft of hair protruded from a crease in the muscle. 

He used the tweezers to gently tease the hair free. Holding it close to the candle, he squinted at the follicles. "Odd," he murmured. "Too thick, too coarse… not like any wolf or dog." A wave of dizziness washed over him, his hand trembling. The tweezers fell, the hair scattering. "Damn," he grunted, his fingers digging into his wrist. The bourbon's warmth was quickly turning to a blur. 

The smell of burning filled his nostrils. The hair! He frantically gathered the scattered strands, now mingled with dust. But there was no fire. He scanned the desk. Only his papers and a few silver coins lay there. A sudden thought struck him. He picked up a single hair and held it to the candle flame. Nothing. "Curious," he murmured, intrigued. He repeated the test, holding the hair in the flame several times. Still no reaction. 

What could have caused the burning smell? His gaze drifted to the desk. The scattered report, his bourbon glass, the silver coins… An idea sparked. He placed the hair on one of the coins. It erupted in flames. Watters recoiled, knocking over his papers, which instantly caught fire. "What in God's name—?" he exclaimed, stepping back from the blaze. 

"An exothermic reaction…with silver? That's not consistent with any natural substance." he murmured, the flame flickering in his eyes. He'd never witnessed anything like it. He doused the burning papers with a nearby jug of water, the sudden smoke a stark reminder of the strangeness of the night. The air, moments before thick with the scent of burning paper, now carried a new, terrifying undercurrent – the raw, animal reek of fear. "Could it really be —?" 

Screams, sharp and piercing, shattered the night's fragile peace. What now? he thought, a cold dread creeping into his heart as he grabbed his coat and ran to the door. He wrenched it open. The screams were a symphony of terror. And then, the howls. Wolves, their voices rising from the shadows, surrounding him. A wave of icy fear washed over him. The explosion was a sudden, violent punctuation mark. He whirled around, his breath catching in his throat. The town square was a swirling vortex of fire.