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You make it from one end of Tatterdemalion's book to the other, and then through a half dozen more books after that from other equally arcane scholars, but have no luck at all. Were it not for the soothing scent of old pages turning under your fingers, you may have flown into a rate by now at the frustration of such an elusive subject.
You rise for the third or fourth time, collecting another stack of tomes from a nearby shelf, and immerse yourself once more. Chicken's foot... No. Pewter teeth... Irrelevant, something different. These beads look familiar... No, those are made of seashell, the ones you're looking for are formed from red clay.
<span class="mu-g">"What am I missing... What am I not seeing..."</span> You mumble, pacing through the library. Your gaze settles on the crooked, burnt claw, and you sigh. And you squint. And you sigh again.
<span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-r">"Quadrupedal quarry... Outlaw of the underworld..."</span></span> Your master's cryptic remarks rattle around between your ears.
Of course!
You practically lunge for a particular shelf on the far end of the library and grab three books: 'Habits of The Shaman, Sixth Edition', 'Catalogue of Lupine Rituals, Translated by Gershom Weiss', and 'Howls Beyond The Veil'.
It's a werewolf. Karloff's 'charter' bans their presence inside of Charleston, his enforcers slaughtered all the old packs or revealed their whereabouts to Cheiron (which already uses spyware across all the municipal districts to monitor the populace for signs of an impending First Change, detecting werewolves and capturing them before they even know what they are themselves). They've become vanishingly rare, and a survivor would have every reason to aid and abet a disruptive presence like Silas Newton. The foot must have been used to bind a weak spirit for a spot of cheap magic.
>Cont'd
