The rest of the day was spent at Faulkner’s side as he traversed the gaslit streets of Saintstown, from upscale restaurants to back alleys to City Hall; an unrelenting series of meetings with an endless progression of strangers. The next few days passed in similar fashion.
Caleb was called upon to intervene a handful of times, usually with a warning glare or a firm push. Once, Faulkner instructed Caleb to break a man’s finger. The bones crunched and popped under his twisting grip, but beyond that Caleb felt nothing.
On the topic of Caleb’s lycanthropy, Faulkner was utterly silent. Caleb grew restless; he took to pacing behind Faulkner throughout every meeting, which in turn put Faulkner’s colleagues on edge.
The situation came to a head by the end of the first week.
Those Faulkner met with usually fell into one of two categories, which he euphemistically referred to as either “clients” or “talent.” The “talent,” in this particular case, was a pair of cutthroats, brother and sister, who liked to meet Faulkner behind a dumpling shop they liked. Each time, he’d handed them the few jobs he deemed worthy of their abilities.
As usual, Caleb tuned out the specifics of their conversation—at least until the brother started yelling. He was, evidently, dissatisfied with the size of Faulkner’s cut.
“My fees are non-negotiable,” Faulkner replied, and that didn’t go over very well at all.
The brother took a step toward Faulkner, seething with a violence that wouldn’t stay leashed for much longer. Caleb blocked his path. The man took a swing; Caleb dodged it easily and hooked his ankle, kicking his opponent’s legs out from under him.
The man went down, but his sister scored a swift punch to Caleb’s face. Pain flared from his nose all the way up to his eye sockets.
A familiar red haze descended.
Caleb woke in a strange bed.
It was more comfortable than his bed in the hotel; judging by how his feet weren’t hanging off the end, it was bigger, too. The bedcovers were plain linen, but Caleb was pretty sure the pillow under his head was goosedown.
Opening his eyes revealed a spacious, if spartan, wood-paneled bedroom. Besides the bed and a wardrobe, there wasn’t much in the way of decoration or furniture.
There was, however, a stuffed wingback chair, upon which sat Faulkner with a book open across his lap. He looked up when Caleb’s movements made the bed creak.
“So,” Faulkner said. “It’s triggered by pain.”
“You were watching me,” Caleb realized. “Waiting to see what would set it off.”
“And what wouldn’t. Anxiety, for example, doesn’t seem to be a trigger. Neither does violence, at least in and of itself.” Faulkner closed the book and settled both hands atop it in his lap. “What else?”
“Anger,” Caleb said. “Blood. It’s the smell, I think.”
Faulkner nodded, probably filing the information away somewhere in his head.
Caleb looked around the room again. The window was open, with a pleasant breeze wafting through, but the streets outside were quiet. Wherever they were, it was nowhere near the cacophonous bustle of the docks. “Where are we?”
“My home,” Faulkner replied, as if it should be obvious.
Faulkner’s house was—like everything else Faulkner owned—modest, unassuming, but well-appointed. The first-floor kitchen and dining room were simply but expensively furnished in dark wood; the study on the same floor was dominated by a huge, polished desk and bookcases full of leather-bound volumes. Alongside the two bedrooms, the second floor also featured a bath and Faulkner’s most indulgent luxury yet: running water.
It didn’t take long for Caleb to notice that his few possessions had been moved into the spare bedroom where he’d awoken.
Faulkner led him to the cellar, which was unfinished and empty. Impressions in the dirt floor suggested that various trunks and crates must have been stored here for some time, then moved. Faulkner had cleared this room of anything breakable, and done so recently.
In one hand, Faulkner held a blindfold; in the other, a stopwatch. He handed the blindfold to Caleb. “Put this on.”
His expression brooked no argument. Caleb tied the blindfold over his eyes.
“Now,” Faulkner said, “focus on my voice, and only my voice.”
In the perfect darkness beneath the blindfold, it wasn’t difficult for Caleb to do as he was told.
“Your episodes are tied to three sensations: anger, pain, and revulsion. Anger is unpredictable, and therefore unsuitable for our purposes. And I would prefer not to cause you pain, if it can be avoided. So that leaves this.”
There was the soft whisper of a knife against its sheath, and then Faulkner let slip a brief grunt of pain. A thick, rusty, vaguely sweet smell filled the air, overpowering every other sense Caleb had.
His stomach twisted, nausea churning in his gut. He opened his mouth to groan, fangs sharpening against his lips.
“Faulkner,” he warned, already struggling to speak. “Get out. Now.”
“No.” There was a sharp clicking sound, and the stopwatch began to tick.
Caleb doubled over, fists clenching around nails that began to lengthen into claws.
“Anger. Pain. Revulsion.” Faulkner’s voice cut through the roar in Caleb’s ears. “They’re nothing but information, Caleb. Instinctive reactions meant to keep us from danger. They only have power over you if you let them.”
Caleb’s focus wavered, then shattered. He howled as his awareness blurred into a riot of violence and instinct. Only one last thing cut through: the sound of the stopwatch clicking again.
His senses came back to him in a rush, as they always did. The blindfold was on the ground; he must’ve clawed it loose at some point. The dirt floor of the cellar had been torn up in great swathes, and the stone walls were gouged with claw marks. The only part of the cellar that remained untouched was a small circle where Faulkner still stood, seemingly unbothered by the rampage that had occurred around him. The silver threads of his suit gleamed in the low light.
He held up the stopwatch. “Twelve seconds. Not bad, for a first attempt.”
Something in Caleb’s chest squirmed at the praise.
The next morning, Caleb found himself lying naked in front of Faulkner’s bedroom door. He sprang to his feet, fully awake in an instant, and backed away until he was pressed against the far wall.
He must have changed sometime during the night.
He could have—
Caleb fled back to his own room, shut the door, and locked it. It wasn’t until he heard Faulkner get up and head down to the kitchen that he dared consider leaving.
Once Caleb was dressed and relatively calm, he lingered by Faulkner’s door on his way downstairs. There were no scratch marks, and no sign that he’d tried to break the door down. Whatever he’d done last night, it wasn’t a rampage.
Faulkner acknowledged Caleb with the usual nod when they crossed paths downstairs. If he noticed anything strange about Caleb’s behavior, he didn’t mention it.
The sessions in the cellar continued. Night after night, Faulkner provoked Caleb’s episodes and timed how long it took him to succumb. Day after day, Caleb accompanied Faulkner as he roamed the city.
One evening, roughly two weeks after that first incident, Faulkner led the way into a restaurant just off High Street. It was a place of intricate silverware and silk tablecloths; the clientele were all elegantly dressed, and many of them paused mid-conversation to stare at Caleb, then whisper to their dining companions.
Faulkner exchanged a few soft words with the hostess; within a few minutes, they were led to a small table for two in a private corner of the dining room.
As Faulkner sat, Caleb quickly surveyed the room. “Who are we meeting?”
“No-one.” Faulkner indicated the seat across from him. “Sit down, Caleb. You’re still underweight, and they serve a wonderful roast duck here.”
Caleb eyed the table settings. This was a nice place; the silverware was probably real silver.
Faulkner’s brow furrowed, and he looked from Caleb to the table. “Ah.” A quick snap of his fingers summoned the waiter, and a few minutes later, the table was re-set with steel cutlery instead. “Better?”
Caleb sat.
Faulkner ordered for them. The meal was excellent, although Caleb would have been hard-pressed to identify half of what they were eating. Faulkner did most of the talking, but didn’t seem to mind.
They were halfway through the final course when Caleb heard a commotion at the door. A familiar voice called: “Faulkner! There you are.”
Caleb’s shoulders tensed; his fingers instinctively clenched around the knife in his right hand. Word of what happened to the pair of cutthroats who’d challenged Faulkner had spread quickly, and for the past few weeks, everyone they’d met—clients and talent alike—was on their best behavior, falling over themselves to avoid causing even the slightest offense. Caleb should have known it wouldn’t last.
Valdis had pushed his way past the host’s podium and was now weaving his way through the dining room, clearly headed in Faulkner’s direction. Caleb stood; his chair scraped loudly against the floor as he placed himself directly in Valdis’ path.
“There he is.” Valdis stopped just a few inches short of colliding with him. He smelled like the pub where they’d first met: a dark, pungent animal musk. “The mysterious bodyguard.”
“Easy, Caleb.” Faulkner didn’t bother getting up, regarding Valdis with faint annoyance from his seat at the table. “Is there a reason for this interruption?”
“Just checking in.” Valdis tried to sidestep Caleb; Caleb moved to block him again. “I’ve done every pointless little errand you’ve sent my way, and all it’s gotten me is more pointless little errands. When do I get those ‘lucrative contracts’ you promised?”
“When you’re ready for them,” Faulkner replied. “I contact you, Valdis. Not the other way around.”
People were starting to stare.
Valdis glanced around the room; his expression hardened into a blank mask. He looked up at Caleb again. “See you around.”
Then he turned on his heel and headed for the door.
Caleb kept his eyes on Valdis until he disappeared from sight. His right hand was still clenched around the knife.
“Sit down, Caleb,” Faulkner said. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”
The next morning found Caleb on the floor in front of Faulkner’s bedroom again. And the morning after that, and again and again, until barely a day went by that Caleb didn’t wake at Faulkner’s door. It became a kind of routine: Caleb went to bed, woke up in the hall, made his way back to his own room, came downstairs a few minutes later, and went about his day.
Then came the inevitable morning he opened his eyes to the sight of Faulkner staring down at him.
Caleb flinched, scrambling backwards across the floor until his back hit the wall. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, babbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t—I can’t—”
Faulkner said nothing. There was no disgust on his face; in fact, there was barely an expression at all. He cocked his head to the side and regarded Caleb with an intense stare.
He almost looked intrigued.
They didn’t talk about it for the rest of the day. Faulkner behaved as if nothing unusual had happened.
The following morning, Caleb woke at the foot of Faulkner’s bed.
Again, Faulkner said nothing.
Caleb’s suit never did fit properly, even once he put on more weight.
Their destination one afternoon wasn’t a dive bar or a dark alley, but a tailor’s shop on High Street. A bell over the door rang as Faulkner and Caleb entered, and a voice Caleb knew called, “Just a minute!” from somewhere deeper inside the shop.
The woman who had visited Caleb at the Dockside Hotel emerged from the back room.
“Josephine,” Faulkner said by way of greeting. “Caleb needs a new suit.”
Josephine wasted no time in ushering Caleb onto a platform in front of three huge, clear, expensive-looking mirrors. She whipped the measuring tape from around her neck and began circling Caleb with it, muttering numbers under her breath and pausing occasionally to jot down notes. Faulkner settled into an upholstered chair near the windows, leaning back into the seat as he watched the proceedings.
Over her shoulder, Josephine said, “Young Mr. Tierney is having an affair with an opera singer, by the way. Not sure which one.”
“Probably Irina Orlova,” Faulkner replied. “Her last paramour broke things off after his wife found out. She’s been looking for a new one.”
Caleb eyed Faulkner as best he could under Josephine’s instructions to hold still. “You really do have ears everywhere, don’t you?”
“They can’t all be shady figures in back alleys.” Faulkner shrugged. “Most of Saintstown’s wealthiest men buy their suits from Josephine.”
“And they all think I’m deaf,” Josephine added with a roll of her eyes.
Caleb chuckled, then coughed, still unused to laughing.
Josephine passed on more choice tidbits as she finished taking Caleb’s measurements. Then she began assembling the pieces of the new suit around him, pinning them into place with a seemingly endless supply from the pincushion strapped to her wrist. She made no secret of the disdain she held for her clients; every once in a while Caleb lost the struggle not to laugh, and was playfully scolded for disturbing Josephine’s work.
It seemed like barely any time had passed before Josephine set her last pin in place and stepped back. “There.” She gestured for Caleb to turn and face Faulkner. “Well?”
Faulkner leaned forward in the chair, studying Caleb with a long, lingering gaze. It set a pleasant shiver under Caleb’s skin. “Perfect,” Faulkner said, and the pit of Caleb’s stomach fluttered.
“Good,” Josephine said, breaking the spell between them. “I should have it finished by the end of next week.”
She helped Caleb out of the jacket and sent him behind the screen to change back into the clothes he’d arrived in. Careful as he was, he still managed to dislodge one of the pins; he picked it up carefully and brought it back out with him.
Faulkner and Josephine were still talking as she jotted something down in the schedule book on her desk. She’d unstrapped the pincushion from her wrist and set it down beside her. Caleb handed Josephine the stray pin.
It was a silly mistake, the kind of thing that happened when one was trying to do three things at once. Josephine took the pin and reflexively jabbed it into her wrist, forgetting her pincushion wasn’t there anymore. The pin pierced her skin, instead.
Every muscle in Caleb’s body tensed.
“Shit,” Josephine hissed. She dropped the pin onto her desk as a drop of blood welled up.
A salty, rusty, faintly sweet scent bloomed in the air, thick and overwhelming. Caleb took two frantic steps back and shook his head, trying to clear the smell from his nose. His pulse pounded in his ears.
“Josephine.” Faulkner unfolded slowly from the chair by the window, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Get to your workroom and lock the door. Don’t come out until I tell you.”
Caleb risked a glance at Josephine. She stood frozen in place, eyes wide and darting between them.
“Now!” Faulkner barked.
It was the first time Caleb had heard Faulkner raise his voice. It shocked Josephine, too; she bolted into the back room and slammed the door. A moment later, Caleb heard a deadbolt slide shut.
Then Caleb collapsed onto all fours, snarling.
He came to in a heap on the floor. Nearly every piece of furniture in the room was broken, the upholstery shredded. All three of Josephine’s huge, beautiful mirrors were shattered. Broken glass littered the floor.
In the midst of the disaster, Faulkner stood unharmed.
“Josephine,” he called. “It’s all right now.”
The door to the back room opened just a crack, and Josephine’s bloodless face peered out. Her eyes widened as she took in the devastation.
Caleb met her terrified gaze, and a lead weight settled in his gut.
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