The news of Eric’s predicament had spread through the werewolf community like wildfire. Comments and suggestions were flowing in from elders near and far, along with several offers to host were-Eric permanently in fenced-off bits of private woodland. A Nordic heavy metal band entirely composed of were-bears had asked if Eric was available for a photo shoot – who had ever seen an activated lycanthrope under a bright midday sun?
At the communal table in the warehouse café, the members of the REVIENS committee were comparing notes. Luckily, a consensus had meanwhile been reached regarding the name – this thorny issue had derailed several earlier meetings, but eventually ‘Recherches, études et vérifications inter-garoues pour Eric – néo-vulpinostaticité et solutions’ had emerged as a wording acceptable to all.
Ingrid was recapping on the latest findings to highlight for Josse and Adelphine, who had declined the invitation to attend as honorary weres.
“So. The few cases we’ve heard of mostly occurred in situations with little or no daylight – Arctic winters, and one account of a Spanish lycanthro hiding in a cellar. We don’t know if this is relevant, as the full-moon units’ skylights let in plenty of sun.”
A brief pause, while she checked her notes.
“And, in response to a question from Adelphine, we confirm that we haven’t found any useful clues in Eric’s things. Many thanks to those of you who checked his bag; I’m told it was a right mess.”
The entire group laughed.
“Soooo many chocolate wrappers!”
“The socks! OMG the socks!”
“And all the stains from the leaking pens!”
Ingrid grinned, then remembered an important point.
“Actually, for what it’s worth, we should also list the prescription meds we found with his toothbrush. Maybe they’ll mean something to Adelphine.”
***
In her room in the tavern’s attic, Jade was giving Mirko a hard stare.
“You could have warned me!”
“It had slipped my mind.”
“How does something like that slip your mind?”
Not for the first time, she noticed how he kept out of the light. As usual when he came to see her, he was leaning against the shadow side of the large wardrobe, his hands firmly stuck in the pockets of his jeans.
“Well, when you arrived you were out for the count, and later you’d sort of settled in and I forgot.”
Now that she was better, she kept her room nice and neat, he thought. The bed was made, her clothes were folded, a bunch of daffodils shone brightly on the windowsill. He’d seen the same ones in a nearby park and suspected that a few of those had since gone missing.
“I can see how someone might forget to give a visitor the WiFi password, or to show them where they can plug in a charger. Who forgets to mention an actual poltergeist?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“How do you even talk about this like it’s normal?”
“Isn’t it? And, more to the point, what were you doing down there?”
“I was thirsty. I was looking for a soda. Don’t worry, I was going to pay for it.”
“Mmm-hm. Let’s say I believe you. Because of course you realise that it would be an epic fail for you to disrespect our hosts by nicking their stuff.”
“Wake up, Mirko! Don’t pretend you don’t know something’s off here. It’s too good to be true.”
“Look, I’m sure you have good reasons not to believe in genuine kindness. It does exist; I hope you’ll be able to embrace it at some point.”
“Don’t be a fool. Everybody wants something.”
He looked at her closed expression as she repeated this mantra, at the crossed arms, the sharp elbows sticking out at him and at the world, and he sighed. Not for the first time, he marvelled at the power of teenagers to make a mere twenty-something feel really, really old.
“Whatever our hosts’ motivations might be, you’ll have to agree that they have treated you well, that the door is wide open if you want to leave, and that they have not asked for anything in return.”
“Oh, they will. I’ll be gone before they do.”
“Fine, see if I care. Meanwhile, remember that you’re a guest here. No payment is expected, but common courtesy is. Do. Not. Show. Me. Up.”
***
Back at the drag show, Cara had come in early to help Zelda rehearse a new act that involved a particularly complicated outfit. More of a costume, really; an elaborately studded pleather body suit with a fitted cap on which five long tentacles wriggled and writhed.
It looked ridiculously heavy on Zelda’s fragile neck, and the platform boots didn’t help.
“Fais gaffe quand même,” Cara called out as Zelda teetered on the steps that led down from the front of the stage.
“T’inquiète,” came the reply, instantly followed by a crash and a groan. Those are the moments when you truly appreciate a nice pair of hip pads.
“D’accord,” the punk mermaid conceded as she peeled herself off the floor. “Les marches, faut voir. Mais regarde ceci!”
She climbed back onto the stage, turned to face her imaginary audience and began to dance to a song in her head. She spread her arms, and with a flick of her wrists, the tentacles began to move in unison, waving left and right in step with her moves. A few beats later, the pattern changed, the extra limbs now furling and uncoiling in intricate whorls.
“Wouah,” Cara gawped. “Comment tu fais ça?”
“Il y a des commandes cachées dans les manches, mais après j’en sais pas plus. C’est un copain qui l’a construit pour moi. Tiens, soulève un peu la coupe sur le bord, là.”
Cara lifted the water-filled goblet while Zelda fiddled with the controls of her contraption. One of the lower tentacles shot out and narrowly failed to grab the goblet by its stem. Predictably, the contents spilled out all over the floor.
“Alors, comment dire,” Cara began once they had returned to their dressing room. “Ce sera absolument super, mais on ne va pas se mentir…”
“Ah, ça…” Zelda guffawed. “Il y a quelques petits trucs à revoir.”
She winced as she unzipped her boots and ran her hand over her left ankle to check for a potential sprain.
“Je crois que ça va, je ne sens déjà plus rien. Tu m’aides à sortir de la combinaison?”
A few contortions later the empty suit was draped over the back of her chair, and Zelda attempted to clear a space on her heaving clothes rack.
“Au fait, comment ça s’est passé au boulot? T’en as parlé avec ton notaire?”
“Il était un peu perplexe,” Cara replied. “Il se demande ce qui me prend après toutes ces années, et j’ai dû le rassurer que c’est pas Cara-Cabaret qui viendra travailler.”
“Ben, on peut le comprendre, le pauvre homme… Je peux mettre quelques trucs de ton côté, derrière tes affaires?”
“Oui, oui, vas-y… Il est d’accord pour faire un essai. On travaille à bureau fermé les jeudis, donc on peut déjà voir comment les collègues s’en sortent face à ce défi…”
“Tu me raconteras,” Zelda replied as she ventured behind Cara’s clothes rack with an armful of outfits she rarely used. “C’est pourquoi, l’assiette par terre ici?”
Oh. Cara had forgotten about the plate, on which she had recently set out a fresh offering of chocolate chip cookies. Were they still on there?
“Je voulais voir si on a des souris. Tu me la ramènes?”
“Quoi, c’est avec ceci que t’essaies de les apater? T’aurais pas plutôt pris des biscuits?”
The cookies were gone, but the plate wasn’t empty. A small, pointy cap lay in the middle, no larger than that of a doll, with a daffodil head wilting by its side.