The moment they were safely home, Caleb put his fist through the wall.
Faulkner regarded the damage with cold disdain and sighed. “Please don’t vent your frustrations on our home.”
“What are we doing, Faulkner?” Caleb stormed into the study, rounding on Faulkner when he followed. “We’ve been at this for weeks, and I’m nowhere near cured.”
“I never promised you a cure, Caleb.” There was a stern edge in Faulkner’s voice. “I offered you control. And we’re making progress.”
“You call that control?”
“It’s a shame about Josephine’s shop, but I can cover the damages easily enough—”
“I nearly killed her!” Caleb lunged toward Faulkner, as close as he knew he could get before it would start to sting. “Don’t you care? Is she your friend, or just a contact?”
“I’m quite fond of Josephine,” Faulkner said, “which is why I sent her out of the room as a precaution only.” His expression softened, just a little. “You wouldn’t have hurt her, Caleb. You like her.”
All the energy went out of Caleb at once. He sank into a couch, head in his hands. “That’s never stopped me before.”
“… Who did you hurt, Caleb?”
Caleb slumped on the couch, curling in on himself.
“I’m not trying to wring a confession out of you,” Faulkner said. “I have no interest in judging or absolving your sins. But if I’m going to help you, there are things I need to know.”
“I know.” Caleb took a breath. “It’s—when I first—”
The breath rattled out of him, the words all roiling together in his head.
“You were a crewman on the merchant ship Osger.”
Caleb’s hands dropped as he stared at Faulkner. “Of course you know that.”
“I do my research before offering someone a job.” Faulkner settled into the armchair across from Caleb, hands folded in his lap. “The Osger crossed paths with another ship, correct?”
“A wreck,” Caleb said. “Captain was excited. He got a pretty small cut of whatever we moved, but salvage could be kept off the books.”
Faulkner nodded. “According to several of your crewmates, you went aboard as part of the salvage crew and came back with a bloody hand.”
“There was a body in the captain’s cabin,” Caleb explained. “A woman. Had a silver knife sticking out of her chest. It was small enough, I figured I could keep it without the captain knowing. Only she wasn’t quite dead, and she—she bit me.” He massaged the base of his thumb, where the wound had healed without a scar. “I tried to get away, but she wouldn’t let go. So I—I shoved the knife in harder, and that was it, I guess.”
“She died?”
Caleb nodded. “Micah—a friend of mine—he helped bandage me up. We put into port a few days later. Went out for drinks.” He swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “We—there was a fight. I don’t know how it started. Someone had a knife—got me across the cheek.”
“And that caused your first episode.”
Caleb swallowed again. “And when it was over, Micah—”
His voice died around the words.
“Micah was dead,” Faulkner said.
“I ran,” Caleb continued, in a rush. “Stowed away, port to port. Tried not to stay anywhere for long. Tried to keep from killing anyone else. Didn’t work.”
“And then you were arrested.”
“It was actually a relief.” Caleb sighed and closed his eyes. “At least, if they executed me, it would be over.”
Soft footsteps crossed the room, and then a warm hand pressed against his cheek.
Caleb’s breath left him in a sharp exhale; he wrapped his fingers around Faulkner’s wrist, nuzzling into his palm. It had been so long since someone touched him in a way that didn’t hurt.
… It didn’t hurt.
Caleb’s eyes flew open. Faulkner’s suit was charcoal grey, without a hint of bright silver thread.
“As I said.” The corner of Faulkner’s mouth twitched upward. “We’re making progress.”
Faulkner’s next meeting was with a spoiled merchant’s son who was planning to assassinate his way into the city council’s good graces.
Caleb’s hackles went up the moment the boy arrived, and his lip twisted into an involuntary snarl as the meeting progressed. It didn’t take much insight to recognize the open resentment the boy had for Faulkner, and the idea that someone else possessed the connections he lacked.
Faulkner had clearly noticed as well; he expertly hid his disdain, for all the good it did. It wasn’t long before their polite negotiation devolved into a heated series of demands and refusals.
Then the boy stepped in close and crumpled Faulkner’s lapel in his fist.
The next thing Caleb knew, the boy’s wrist was splintering in his grip.
The boy screamed. Caleb’s pulse thrummed in his ears, fury roiling in his gut. “Don’t touch him,” he growled. “Don’t you ever touch him.”
“Caleb,” Faulkner said, gently chiding. “Enough.”
Slowly, with great effort, Caleb’s hand uncurled. His chest heaved with each labored breath, air whistling through clenched fangs on every exhale.
The boy ran, but Caleb barely noticed. His heart thumped rapidly in his chest, his nails sharpening into claws—
—and then came Faulkner’s voice. “Caleb. Stop.”
Caleb’s tensed muscles went lax. His pulse slowed; the fangs and claws withdrew.
When he looked up, Faulkner’s face was all he saw.
“Oh,” Faulkner said, regarding Caleb with a curious, strangely delighted expression. “I see.”
Caleb’s episodes came further and further apart. Each time, they were halted with nothing more than a word from Faulkner. Eventually they stopped altogether.
One morning, for the first time in months, Caleb woke in his own bed.
He tried not to think about why that was disappointing.
Some days, Faulkner didn’t leave the house at all. Instead, he holed up in his study with towering piles of books and papers and sent Caleb out as necessary to fetch meals, or deliver letters, or buy more ink.
It was on Caleb’s return from one of these errands that Valdis stepped out into the street in front of him, blocking his path.
Valdis grinned, all teeth. “It’s Caleb, right? Faulkner’s bodyguard.”
Caleb moved to shove past; Valdis sidestepped with him, planting a hand on Caleb’s chest.
“Leave him alone,” Caleb snarled. “Whatever you want from him, you’re not going to get it.”
Valdis leaned in close; the smell of that old pub washed over them both, and Caleb wrinkled his nose.
“Faulkner’s boring.” Valdis’ nostrils flared on a deep inhale. “I’m not interested in him.”
This time, when he smiled, it was with long, sharp fangs. He surged in close, clawed hands wrapping around Caleb’s neck, and now Caleb knew why he smelled so familiar.
Pain burst from the pressure on Caleb’s throat. Anger roiled in his chest.
The change didn’t come.
Valdis shoved, hard, and Caleb’s head hit a wall with a sharp crack.
Consciousness fled in a breathless rush.
Caleb came to laying on his side, with his face pressed against a rough wood floor. It hurt to open his eyes; when he finally managed it, he found himself in a small, grubby, one-room apartment.
“Don’t sit up too fast.” Valdis peered down at him from his seat on the room’s single wooden chair. “That crack to the head would’ve killed a human. But we both know you’re not human.”
Caleb groaned and rolled onto his back. “Neither are you, then.”
“It’s been a long time since I met someone like me,” Valdis replied. “A long, long time.”
Caleb’s head hurt too much for this. “You broke my head open because you’re lonely?”
“Aren’t you?” Valdis’ face swam into sight as he stood and leaned over Caleb. “I think we were meant to find each other. I think, together, we could do anything we want. Have everything we want.”
Caleb struggled to sit up; he groped blindly behind himself until he found the edge of the bed, leaning against it. “I’m busy.”
“What, following some middleman around the city?” Valdis crouched next to where Caleb sat. “Running his errands?”
Caleb felt a growl rising in his chest. “He’s not ‘some middleman.’”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Valdis waved a dismissive hand. “Between the two of us, we can handle him easily enough.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? Faulkner has you leashed like a dog. You deserve better than that.” He paused, studying Caleb with narrowed eyes, then threw his head back and laughed. “Oh. Oh. You like it. You want to be his good little dog.”
Caleb’s lip lifted in a silent snarl.
“In that case,” Valdis leaned in close, “I think I have to kill you.”
“I thought you were lonely.”
Valdis answered Caleb’s snarl with one of his own. “Maybe, but I’m not stupid.”
Caleb lunged for Valdis’ throat.
Any advantage he gained by surprise, he quickly lost; Valdis had the wolf’s strength on his side and wasn’t nursing a half-broken skull. He spun with Caleb’s lunge, rolling around behind him and wrapping an arm around Caleb’s neck.
“Ever torn someone’s head off, Caleb?” Valdis’ free hand hooked around the bottom of Caleb’s jaw, claws wrenching his head back. “It takes longer than you’d think.”
Caleb was going to die.
The realization brought with it a kind of contentment. He’d never had someone to die for before.
But then a voice—Faulkner’s voice—echoed through the small room: “Enough.”
Valdis dropped Caleb and stood, rounding on the door with a low growl.
Faulkner stood in the doorway, hands folded primly behind his back. He looked for all the world like a disappointed teacher preparing to discipline an unruly student. “Valdis,” he said, an acid tone in his normally even voice. “I’ve given you more latitude than you deserve, because you’ve been useful. But this crosses a line.”
“Yeah?” Valdis advanced on him, slow and arrogant. “What do you plan to do about it?”
Faulkner turned his attention from Valdis to where Caleb still lay on the floor, struggling to stand. “Caleb?”
Caleb shivered, nerves singing in anticipation: an instrument waiting to be played.
“Kill.”
Caleb grinned around long fangs and leapt for Valdis’ unprotected back.
Flesh parted easily under tooth and claw. There was blood in his mouth and streaked through his fur; he heard furious howls, then shrieks, then nothing at all except the wet sounds of meat and bone coming apart.
“That’s enough, Caleb. Thank you.”
Caleb went still. Fangs and fur and claws receded.
His hands were soaked to the elbow in blood; he could feel more on his face, dripping from his chin. Faulkner watched from the doorway, hands still clasped behind his back. There was a pleased gleam in his eye.
Caleb stood, taking one halting step, then another, until he stood before Faulkner.
Then he dropped to his knees and pressed his bloody face into Faulkner’s abdomen.
Fingers ran through Caleb’s hair, a soothing caress across his scalp and down the back of his neck.
“You did well,” Faulkner murmured. “Time to go home.”
Caleb wasn’t sure how long it took them to get home; the time passed strangely, in fits and starts. His next coherent impression was of the front hall, and Faulkner telling him to wait where he was.
A few minutes later, a hand closed gently around his upper arm. “Caleb.” Faulkner’s voice was a beacon in the fog. “Go upstairs and get cleaned up.”
Caleb stumbled upstairs. There was a hot bath waiting.
He washed off the blood with quick, perfunctory movements and waited for the guilt to come, or the revulsion, but even the emptiness that sometimes took their place was absent. Instead there was a kind of peaceful satisfaction.
Faulkner told him what to do, and he did it. And that felt … good.
Once the water went cold, Caleb got out and dried off. There was a loose shirt and trousers waiting for him on a rack nearby; he dressed, then wandered downstairs.
He found Faulkner in the study, behind his desk. He gave Caleb a nod of acknowledgment before turning his attention back to the letter he was writing.
Caleb moved toward the chair, then settled to the floor and laid his head against Faulkner’s thigh. Faulkner’s free hand reached down and stroked through his hair once, an invitation to stay exactly where he was.
Faulkner continued his work, and Caleb’s eyes slipped shut. The world quieted to the rustle of paper, the scratch of a pen, the warmth of Faulkner’s leg, the thrum of his pulse. Caleb nuzzled into the soft fabric under his cheek and let out a long sigh.
He could’ve stayed there forever.
Eventually he roused when Faulkner sat back in his chair and pushed it away from the desk. “Time for bed.”
Caleb trailed him upstairs, but hesitated in the hall when Faulkner crossed into his own bedroom.
Faulkner turned to face him. “Are you coming in?”
Caleb swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Would you like to?”
It was barely a whisper: “Yes.”
Faulkner studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Caleb. Come here, please.”
As if pulled on a leash, Caleb stumbled into the room. Faulkner reached out to steady him; he braced his hands on either side of Caleb’s neck, thumbs stroking his jaw.
Caleb nearly sobbed with relief when Faulkner finally kissed him.
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