Caleb was to be executed in the morning.
He had a small cell to himself, although they’d chained his wrists to the wall—a reasonable precaution, considering the state of the bodies the police had found scattered around him. The chains were long enough to move his arms freely, but just short enough to keep him away from the door.
Not that he had a particular interest in the door. Not even when it opened in front of him in the dead of night.
The man who entered the cell could pass unnoticed just about everywhere: middle-aged, average height, average weight, average appearance. He wore a three-piece suit of moderate cost—but with impeccable tailoring—and regarded Caleb with mild interest from behind round, wire-rimmed glasses.
There was a bodyguard at the stranger’s shoulder, tall and broad-shouldered like Caleb, but bulky where Caleb was lean. He was dressed in similarly nondescript attire.
“Hello,” the man with the glasses said—polite, but in a flat tone that indicated only mild interest. “You’re Caleb, yes?”
Caleb hadn’t given the police his name. He hadn’t said anything at all when they arrested him, tried him, or convicted him. He leveled a suspicious glare at this unassuming man, and waited.
“You can call me Mr. Faulkner.” The man turned slightly and nodded to the bodyguard, who moved to stand at Caleb’s right, slightly behind him—poised to intervene if Caleb made to attack Faulkner. “Your execution is in a few hours,” Faulkner continued. “You and I both know it would be a trivial matter for you to break those chains and kill anyone barring your way to the exit. Yet I’m told you’ve made no attempt whatsoever to escape. Which means—” he tilted his head, as if observing a peculiar scientific specimen, “—you must want to be here.”
Caleb had the overwhelming urge to crawl into the corner and hide; instead, he met Faulkner’s dissecting gaze and shrugged.
“The executioner is, of course, unaware of your condition,” Faulkner said. “Tomorrow morning, that will change. Once he realizes conventional means of execution are off the table, he’ll have to get more creative.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Hardly the quick and merciful end you’ve been hoping for.”
Caleb’s heart thumped once, hard, against his ribs. His hands curled into fists.
“You will have only one chance to escape the fate that awaits you tomorrow, and this is it. If you want out, you will do exactly as I say, the moment I say it. Do you understand?”
Caleb’s voice rasped with disuse when he replied, “Yes.”
“Good. Kill the bodyguard.”
The bodyguard barely had time to protest before Caleb was up and moving. Caleb kneed him in the gut to double him over, then wrapped one arm around his neck and wrenched upward and back with a firm, sharp snap. The bodyguard went limp.
Faulkner watched impassively as the body hit the floor. “Good. Now break those cuffs off your wrists, take his clothes, and dress him in yours. And tie your hair back—you’ll need to look passably respectable from a distance.”
Caleb did as he was told; Faulkner turned his back, as if conceding to propriety, and Caleb couldn’t help but snort. It had been a long time since anyone cared about his virtue.
Once Caleb was dressed, he cleared his throat.
Faulkner turned back to face him. “Come with me,” he said, and opened the door into an empty hallway.
By the time they reached the end of the corridor, Caleb could smell smoke.
“Stay calm,” Faulkner said, perhaps sensing Caleb’s unease. “Keep walking.”
The guards barely gave Caleb a glance as he walked out the prison’s front door at Faulkner’s side. It helped that they quickly had other things to worry about.
Caleb watched the prison burn from across the street.
“Congratulations,” Faulkner said, dry but not without humor. “You’re dead.”
He handed Caleb a calling card. It was blank, save for an address written in a small, neat hand.
“Meet me at that address in the morning.”
Caleb had been nineteen when he went to the docks, looking for work.
He had no idea how one got hired onto a ship; his best plan was to stand somewhere conspicuous and try to look useful. Morning crept into midday, and so far he’d only managed to draw a few disinterested glances and acquire a mild case of sunburn.
“You look lost.”
Caleb looked around, then down. The skinny young man standing at his side had to tilt his head back to look Caleb in the eye, but so did most people. There was an impish air to him that reminded Caleb of his little sister.
“I am,” Caleb replied, “a little.”
“Need work?”
Caleb nodded.
“I’m on the Osger,” the boy said. “Captain’s looking for deckhands.” He turned to lead the way towards one of the nearby berths.
Caleb hesitated. “It’s not that easy, is it?”
“Oh, don’t worry. The hard part comes later.”
Caleb ran a little to catch up. “I’m Caleb.”
“Micah,” the boy replied. “Nice to meet you, Caleb.”
Oddly enough, he sounded like he meant it.
“The Osger,” Caleb asked as they walked. “It’s a good ship?”
“It’s—” Micah paused, and sighed. “It is what it is.” He grinned up at Caleb. “Just stick with me, all right? You’ll be fine.”
Two years later, Caleb lurched his way to consciousness with the taste of iron in his mouth.
There were bodies everywhere, broken and ripped apart like so much meat; splashes of rusty crimson coated the floor, the walls, Caleb’s hands, his face, his tongue, his teeth—
And at his feet, throat and chest torn to scraps, lifeless eyes staring up at him, lay Micah.
The address on Faulkner’s calling card led to the Egret, a nightclub up on the hill in one of Saintstown’s more reputable districts. The front door opened into a small vestibule, furnished in polished wood and muffled by dark curtains. A large, ornate door blocked the way into the club itself.
Between Caleb and that door was a young woman behind a podium. She glanced up briefly from the menus she was sorting and said, “We’re closed.”
Caleb’s smile had too much fang and too little humor, judging by the way the hostess recoiled. He said, “I’m here to see Mr. Faulkner.”
At the name, the hostess immediately waved him through.
The club was, of course, absolutely empty this time of day. It wasn’t hard for Caleb to spot Faulkner tucked away in one of the booths along the far wall, flipping through a book spread on the table in front of him. A glass of water sat at a safe distance from the book.
Caleb settled into the seat across from him.
“Thank you for coming.” Faulkner closed the book and set it aside. He wore a pinstriped suit, the stripes oddly bright against the gray wool.
Caleb shrugged. “I didn’t have anything better to do.”
“No, you don’t.” Faulkner met Caleb’s eyes with a deeply unimpressed expression. “Ask.”
“What?”
“Ask the question you’ve been waiting to ask since last night.”
“Fine. Why did you help me?”
“Because I hate to see talent go to waste.” Faulkner settled back in his seat. “I recently discovered an employee of mine had been selling information on my movements and dealings to several interested parties. Since you did me the significant favor of eliminating him, it seems appropriate that I offer you his job.”
“You want me to be your bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
It had been a long time since Caleb laughed. What clawed its way up his throat was more like a cough. “You must have a death wish. You already know about my ‘condition.’”
A heartbeat later, to prove his point, Caleb lunged across the table. He had no intention to follow through, as easy as it would be to open Faulkner’s throat; it was a petty scare tactic, nothing more.
Faulkner didn’t move, or even flinch. But as Caleb closed in, a stinging, buzzing sensation spread across his skin, swiftly escalating into pain. Caleb gasped and reeled back.
“You’re correct about one thing.” Faulkner’s voice was even, without a hint of a tremor. “I’m well aware that you’re a werewolf. Which is why my suit is woven through with silver thread.”
Caleb shook his head to clear it and settled back in his seat with a sullen glare.
“I also know,” Faulkner continued, “that by all accounts, your condition isn’t triggered by anything as conveniently predictable as a full moon. You find it difficult to control or even anticipate your episodes. Which is what I can offer you, Caleb: control.” He paused. “In addition to a generous salary.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you’re free to go back to the life you had before. Such as it was. But as you said: you don’t have anything better to do.”
Caleb was the first to break eye contact; he stared down at his hands, picking at his fingernails. There was still old blood caked under them.
He already knew he was going to say yes.
Faulkner had taken the liberty of booking Caleb a room at the Dockside Hotel. He handed over the key alongside an envelope of cash and firm instructions to bathe as soon as he checked in.
Only briefly did Caleb consider taking the money and running.
The staff at the hotel were apparently forewarned about his arrival. They showed him immediately to his room, where a bath had already been drawn. Once he was truly clean for the first time in years, he wandered back out to the main room. It was serviceable enough; the room and bed were both small, but well-kept.
There was a knock at the door. Caleb was halfway to opening it before he realized he should put on a robe first.
The woman standing in the hall was probably younger than Caleb by a few years, but carried herself like a stern, elderly matron. Her dress was simple and dark, but elegantly tailored. A garment bag hung over one of her arms; in her free hand was a small leather satchel.
“Faulkner sent me.” The woman raised both eyebrows, looking Caleb up and down. “He warned me you’d be a challenge.”
She didn’t wait for his permission to enter the room.
The satchel contained an assortment of shears and razors, which the woman rapidly put to work. By the time she finished and handed Caleb a small mirror to inspect the results, his formerly unruly mane was the shortest it had been since he was a child and his beard was trimmed down to a mathematically respectable length.
Caleb hadn’t seen his own face in years. He looked so much older than he remembered; there were fine lines around his eyes, and a dusting of gray at his temples.
The woman produced a dark suit from the garment bag and helped him into it, evidently unconcerned that she was in a closed room with a mostly-naked man. The suit fit well enough around the shoulders, but hung loose nearly everywhere else.
“It’ll fit better once you start eating properly.” The woman’s tone indicated that she expected said proper eating to begin immediately. She took a step back and once again looked him up and down. “You’ll do.”
And with that, she left.
Faulkner came to collect him that afternoon. He gave Caleb a quick once-over, then nodded, apparently satisfied by what he saw. “Josephine does good work.”
The compliment wasn’t for Caleb, not directly, but it warmed him anyway.
The Dockside Hotel sat at the fringes of Saintstown’s rowdiest drinking quarter; Faulkner led Caleb into its depths. Their destination was an absurdly narrow pub, visibly older and shabbier than the buildings squeezed into the row on either side of it. Over the years, the doorway had settled into a slightly crooked shape, and the door was cut down to fit. The glass in the windows was thick and warped, but nevertheless clean.
“Doesn’t seem like your kind of place,” Caleb remarked.
“It isn’t,” Faulkner replied easily. “Stay close, and try not to draw attention to yourself. Only get involved if it looks like things are about to get violent, or if they already have. And try to shed blood only as a last resort, please.”
“I may not have much choice about that.”
“I know.”
The inside of the pub more or less matched the outside: old and shabby, but clean. Even among the kind of people who holed up in a dockside pub all day, Faulkner drew very little attention. He received a few passing glances on his way to the bar, but that was all.
Faulkner caught the eye of the bartender and said, simply, “Valdis?” The bartender nodded to a figure seated at one of the tables nearby.
The man’s eyes were already on Faulkner. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed and dressed in a hurry. He had his thumb and forefinger around the rim of the half-empty glass in front of him, rotating it slowly back and forth. He maintained eye contact as Faulkner approached the table.
Faulkner sat across from him, taking a moment to adjust his jacket and waistcoat. Caleb stood just behind his shoulder. There was a musky animal scent in the air, almost unpleasant; something about it was familiar.
“You must be Mr. Faulkner,” the man—Valdis—said. His nostrils flared; he glanced quickly around the room, until his eyes settled on Caleb. “Who’s this?”
“My bodyguard.” It was a firm dismissal. “I’m told you wanted to meet with me?”
Valdis turned his attention back to Faulkner. “I’ve been in Saintstown a few days. I like it. I’m planning to stay.” He shrugged. “I was told you could get me some work.”
“I won’t insult us both by asking what kind of work you have in mind.” Faulkner pulled a small ledger from his pocket and opened it. “I have a few jobs available for someone in your position. Some warnings to be delivered. A retrieval or two.”
Caleb glanced at the open ledger; the writing inside was all in code.
Valdis exhaled loudly through his nose, crossing his arms on the table in front of him. “I’m not interested in scutwork. They said you were the best fixer in Saintstown—is that all you’ve got?
“As you said,” Faulkner replied, an edge in his tone, “you’ve only been in Saintstown a few days. My clients trust me to provide them with reliable talent. Prove to me that you’re reliable, and you’ll have your choice of lucrative contracts soon enough.”
Valdis’ jaw worked for a moment; his eyes narrowed. “Fine,” he spat.
Faulkner drew a calling card—blank, like the one he’d handed Caleb last night—from his pocket and jotted down an address in sharp, quick strokes. Then he slid the card across the table. “For your first task, report to this address. You’ll receive further instructions from there.”
Valdis took the card and pocketed it as Faulkner stood, adjusting his waistcoat once again. Caleb followed him out; he felt Valdis’ sullen glare on his back all the way.
As the crooked door closed behind them, Faulkner paused and glanced at Caleb from the corner of his eye, as if waiting for something. Questions, maybe.
Caleb kept his mouth shut and shrugged. Faulkner’s response was a slight nod.
“Get us a cab, would you? Our next meeting is across town.”
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