The Guardian

For the past 2 years I’ve been a Guardian De Novo with the Central Research Institute of Paranormal Type Deviations (CRIPTD), a shadow agency that reports into the United Nations Economic and Social Council. Unofficially, that is. On paper the organization doesn’t exist and neither do the creatures I survey as part of my job. My paychecks come from a nonprofit which is little more than a website with a mission statement packed with feel-good phrases about helping people.

It’s not a bad job. I get to travel the world, there’s room for upward mobility in the organization (for those that survive), and seeing as we deal with the supernatural one has excellent job security (again, if you don't get merked by a horned up selkie or a hungry wendigo) . Add to that the fact that I get to meet new and interesting; let’s stick with calling them people; and you’ve got yourself a decent career.

Spiritual, emotional and physical dangers aside, it's really not that bad. Honest! The biggest downside is that the demands of the job make it almost impossible to have any kind of personal life or family, but I’ve never held out much hope for those things after my entire life imploded my senior year of high school.

The Christmas of my senior year mom woke me up the way she always had; bursting into my room as sunrise blaring Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas" dancing and lip syncing like she was on America's Got Talent. Mom loved Christmas. She'd been through a lot in her life so every occasion, every small achievement, and even a random good Wednesday was worthy of celebration and gratitude. Surely that is the source of my optimism.

She'd handed me an envelope and stood bouncing on the balls of her tiny toed feet as I'd opened it reading over the carefully planned itinerary she'd typed out and printed at her job as a bookkeeper for the only CPA in town. She'd saved for months and booked us a luxury spring break trip to Austin. Luxurious for us anyway. Sure Austin was only three hours away and I'd been before, and it wasn't nearly as exciting as the trips some of my classmates took, but growing up the only child of a single mom the small luxuries are magnified by their rarity.

The trip had been perfect. We'd stayed at The Driskill even though it was rumored to be haunted (is haunted, fyi) and mom had not been at all interested in encountering a ghost unlike myself. We'd hiked, did a mini barbecue crawl, and she'd let me have my first glass of wine getting misty-eyed as she'd talked tipsily about how I was a grown up now and would leave her soon. If she’d only known it was she who’d be leaving me by way of a head-on collision with an oak tree on our drive home two nights later.

They told me she died instantly and I somehow survived flying through the windshield at 70 mph and landing 100 feet away into a barbed wire fenced cow pasture. It had been just the two of us my whole life.

Marsha Carter was 36 years old when she died. She'd had no siblings, no living parents, no spouse, and no real extended family. Just me. In her short life she'd been a waiter, a car salesperson, a school bus driver, and had put herself through night school to get an associates degree to enter into the exciting world of accounting as a bookkeeper.

She had been a lot of things to a tight-knit group of friends, and she had been the bright churning center of my world. The shift from her alive and humming quietly to George Michael's "Faith" to keep herself awake to her lying in the morgue while I recovered in a hospital room 3 floors above her was more than I could process. Then again, how could anyone ever prepare for or process something that traumatic?

I was in my second day in the hospital when Director Larry Evans, head of recruitment, had visited me in the hospital and told me he had a job waiting for me after I graduated. I didn't learn the full details of said job until months later when he returned in mid-June out of the blue.

We'd sat at our kitchen table, my kitchen table, and he'd given me the rundown. I had been very close to calling the cops on the poor man when he laid out the benefits one pager in front of me and I saw the starting salary. It was more money than my mom could have earned in three years.

He'd told me that among the recruiters he had the highest retention rate in the Americas and he thought I'd be a natural at the work. "You've seen death up close. What's left to fear?," he'd said by way of explanation.

I'd taken the time he had recommended to consider the offer. Finally convinced of his sanity (and my insanity) I accepted the position of Guardian on August 30th, my 18th birthday.

The institute had given me a place to land when I hadn't known what the hell I was going to do with my life or if I even wanted to live. They had given me purpose. I'm grateful every day.

So, I suffer through the gigantic Engagement Surveys and the occasional snarl from a grumpy supernatural being and, hopefully, one day, I’ll be Guardian Confermato for a quiet little region with nice scenery like the one I’m in today. I'm in my second year at the de novo rank. After my third year as de novo I'll get the option to move up to Guardian Ricercatore Non Confermato and begin my 3 year research phase rotating through 7 different curated confermatos based on my chosen area of emphasis. I'm leaning towards the aquatic division so I can be near the water. You can take the girl off the gulf coast but you can't take the gulf coast out of the girl.

“Now arriving. Stoke-On-Trent,” the automated feminine voice declares as my train arrives into the station. I’ve been all over the United Kingdom, but never to Staffordshire. I’ve been assigned a werewolf today. They’re arguably my least favorite kind of supe in spite of the fact that they’re among the most human.

See, unlike what much of the lore says, werewolves carry on similar to the way we humans do. They have jobs, maintain interpersonal relationships, go to university, own homes, and all the usual things most people enjoy. They’re even mortal. They don’t age particularly fast and typically fatal wounds for humans aren’t for them, but they do eventually die. It doesn’t even require silver; they just age and pass on like we do. Their average lifespan is around three hundred years. This, of course, requires that most of them begin to slowly back away from human society beginning in their mid-fifties. Anything beyond that and we humans begin to notice they're not quite aging the same way and we get curious.

Curious is dangerous.

It's because of this necessary removal from humanity that they tend to be temperamental. I think it's because they miss humans. God only knows why.

To my knowledge (which, admittedly is lacking) the only thing besides age that can kill them is beheading, and trust me when I assure you any attempt at that will not be successful. They’re fast.

The silver thing is a myth. Silver does provide an extra “oompf” to knife or gunshot wounds so most werewolves, if discovered and injured with silver, will simply move away to avoid suspicion when they inevitably recover. Sometimes it’s just easier to pretend you’re dead.

I wait for the other passengers to disembark the train before rising and collecting my purse and backpack with my 4 days worth of necessities. When you travel as much as I do you learn to travel light.

“Mind the gap,” the automated voice reminds me as I step out onto the covered platform. I make my way down to the footbridge following the other departing passengers to the other side of the station. I check the time on my watch and frown as I realize I won’t have time to grab anything to eat. I’m due at Staffordshire University in 10 minutes and I hate being late. To me, being on time means you’re five minutes early. Anything less than that is unacceptable. I’m a creature of routines, lists, and organization.

Ignoring the grumble in my stomach I hurry down the steps to the ground level and make my way to the street. I reach into my large white faux leather purse and dig around to retrieve my phone to pull up maps and launch the app where I’ll submit my survey of the wolf I’m visiting. I take a right onto Station Road and continue on my estimated 2 minute walk to the university science center where my subject is a research fellow.

It’s an overcast day but at least it isn’t raining. I have an umbrella in my purse but I just don’t like the rain. I haven’t enjoyed the rain since the accident.

Dismissing my dark trip down unpleasant memories lane I arrive at the corner of Station Road and the A52. I cross at the walkway just after the curve of the corner pleased by the fact that I don’t have to wait at the median for the second half of the road to clear. The science center’s copper and bronze colored cladding looks dull and gives off a government building vibe but the windows intrigue me. They’re longer than they are wide and are separated by what look like gills or vents that can be retracted to protect them. They remind me of the hurricane shutters some folks had on their windows back home only these are vertical instead of horizontal.

My phone vibrates in my hand as I approach entrance so I hit the power button and quickly swipe up on the screen to see what requires my attention. There’s a message notification on the left menu of my surveying app so I click into the messages and see one from an Aarav Jah.

“I’m just grabbing a coffee at the lab. Feel free to join me,” it reads. I blink a few times and reach out to open the left door of the double set. This has to be the first time a werewolf has ever been even a little cordial to me or seemed in any way eager to meet with me. I shake off my shock and look around inside the surprisingly open lobby and spot The Coffee Lab. I don’t see anyone at the counter so I flip open the flap on the back of my phone case where my expense card and identification are stored in a convenient slot and saunter up to order an americano.

I’m about to order from the disinterested but pretty clerk whose name tag reads “Carmen” when I’m greeted with a strong cedar scent and feel a gentle tap on my left shoulder. I turn my head in the direction of the tap and have to look up to see the face atop the chest invading my view.

“Resa?,” asks a honey-colored bearded face bearing a curious but open expression.

“Uh.. Yes. Resa Carter. Hello,” I respond while fumbling to tuck my card back into its slot in front of my Texas driver’s license. I transfer the device to my left hand and extend my right to make a proper introduction. His eyebrows descend from his brow and he takes my hand smiling broadly, “Aarav Jah. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you so much for accommodating my caffeine addiction.” He chuckles and releases my hand to reach behind towards his pocket to retrieve his wallet.

“Can I get you anything?,” he asks brightly, making his way smoothly around my other side to the counter. I open my mouth to speak turning in a half circle to follow his movement, “Uh.. I was going to get an americano. You don’t have to pay for me, Dr. Jah.”

“It’s my pleasure, please, I insist,” he smiles back at me before focusing on the now much perkier barista. “An americano and a,” he begins and is interrupted.

“.. a white chocolate mocha. I know, Dr. Jah,” Carmen finishes for him, blushing faintly and staring down into the register screen to ring in the order. His shoulders shake with a brief chuckle that radiates out of his chest. “Yes. Thank you, Carmen,” he says warmly. He hands her a small card I assume is some kind of rewards program tracker that she swipes and hands back to him in exchange for a few pound coins he had nestled in his palm.

He turns back towards me as the clerk turns to begin making the order. I didn’t read his profile ahead of time (unusual for me) so I don’t know his age, but I assume he’s not very old as he’s dressed in a smart yet simple pair of dark brown pants and a dark green sweater both of which appear to be tailored to him as the fit is amazing. You can always tell an older werewolf by their fashion or lack thereof. I smile timidly, trying to keep eye contact and not allow myself to appear intimidated, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it. I like to keep in the good graces of the institute,” he winks one amused and intensely dark brown eye at me and folds his hands behind his back, his shoulders slouching forward slightly like he’s trying to not appear so tall and frighten anyone. It’s unusual and I make a mention note to include it in my ancillary section of the Engagement Survey Summary Report. Most wolves do everything they can to seem physically imposing and many of the males are the hyper masculine sort that think toughness is the only expression their maleness can adopt. This wolf seems to be the polar opposite. I open my mouth to reassure him he's under no suspicion from my employers just as the infatuated Carmen places two to-go cups on top of the counter.

“Here you go, Dr. Jah. Come back and see me when you need your next fix!,” she says excitedly. He turns to retrieve the order and blesses her with a broad and genuine toothy smile. “I don’t know how I’d make it through a day without you, Carmen,” he praises and I swear I think I see the girl’s soul escape her body. So, he’s a charmer, I think to myself.

He turns, hands me my americano and asks, “Do you take cream or sugar?” I carefully take the cup in both hands and bring it to my nose to gauge whether it’s going to be a decent cup or a disappointment, not that I’m a connoisseur. “Mm... No, no. Black is fine. Thank you,” I respond, pleased with the aroma of the brew.

“It’s just this way to my office,” he gestures behind me before taking a sip of his white chocolate mocha and starting down the hall towards the stairs at the other end. I follow and am happy to find I don’t have to trot to keep up with the good doctor. He appears to be not only shortening his stride but controlling his speed as well, apparently having guessed that at just 5 feet 4 inches I don’t cover much ground. The courtesy gives me time to admire the surprisingly modern architecture inside the building. I expected some drab and uninspired affair but the science center is delightfully sleek and stylish.

“Is this building new or was it renovated?,” I ask. “Oh yes, yes. Quite new. Only a few years. It’s very refreshing. Normally we academic types are stuck in some pretty drab surroundings,” he says with a chuckle.

We make our way up two flights and he hangs a left towards a set of light wooden double doors that lead into a hallway off the atrium. The hallway is only about seventy feet long and the right wall is a stark white with doors every 7 on the right and a series of glass walled conference rooms on the left. He stops at the fifth door and pushes down on the chrome lever to open his office. He steps inside and turns to put his back against the wall to his left, holding the door open so I can enter freely.