Chapter 1
The major, an older man dressed in an impeccable black military uniform, carefully placed a tapered metal object on the desk between us. The lower half was brass, while the upper half was sterling, polished silver. He made a show of balancing it on its thicker end before pulling his hand back. He looked up across the desk to catch my eye. I lifted an eyebrow and tilted my head slightly to the side.
“A rifle round?” I asked. My new partner, Wesley Hartley, shifted in his seat beside me to get a better look. He was tall and lanky, with short cropped dusty-blond hair and a hawkish nose.
“Not just any bullet, Lieutenant. This particular rifle round has been cast from nearly pure silver,” the major explained, sliding an open case across the table. Held within were four identical twins to the upright bullet on the desk. “You’ll need these for your next mission.”
“Are we hunting werewolves?” Wes asked with a laugh, which quickly died off as both the major and I slowly looked across at him with no sign of humor. He coughed and nervously adjusted the Special Courier Service uniform that he had yet to grow accustomed to. The word ‘Werewolf’ meant little to me, but I knew from the major’s reaction to expect something out of the ordinary.
“Precisely that, sergeant,” the major said with a patient smile. “Or, at least, that’s what we suspect. We have reports from a small French town in the south region of Lozere. I suspect you haven’t heard of the legend, but stories tell of a man-hunting beast that has terrorized the region, off and on, for several centuries.”
“And I’d assume that we’re crossing back into an on period?” I followed, logically.
“So it would seem, although Command is all too willing to attribute this to the Germans,” the major said, plucking the upright bullet from the desk. He set it into a hollow slot with the other four and closed the case. “Based on the area’s history, it warrants investigating by the courier service. Do bear in mind, Lieutenant, that it may very well be an enemy agent. I expect you to discover the source before you fill it full of…” He patted the top of the case, and slid it across to me. “…extremely expensive holes.”
“Of course, sir,” I grumbled, bristling at the suggestion that I’d be that brash. Judging by Wes’s smirk, I figured he had heard enough from the other agents during training to be fully aware of my reputation. I reached for the case but paused as my hand settled on the top. “What rifle?”
“I had them cast for your Hun rifle,” the major said with a laugh, sitting back in his chair.
He lifted a pipe, settling it into the corner of his mouth. “No need for you to get closer to this thing than absolutely necessary. Keep your distance, unless it ends up being Germans. Then do what you need to.” He snapped a match across the edge of a matchbox, lifting the flame to his pipe.
“Hun rifle?” Wes asked, looking at me. The major drew in deep breaths, stoking the flames in his pipe, before exhaling a long, slow cloud of vanilla-scented tobacco smoke.
“Karibiner 98, enemy ammunition was in much greater supply at Vaux than our own,” I explained, feeling my face stretch into a grimace. “I’d sneak out at night and ransack the field for bullets.”
“That sounds absolutely ghoulish,” Wes remarked, unthinking, and I fixed him with a particularly harsh stare. “Right, sorry, I’m sure it was necessary.”
“It was,” I said coldly, standing from my seat at the desk. I tucked the case of rifle rounds into my jacket pocket and gave the major a quick salute. He returned it half-heartedly and waved us out.
“Good luck, Lieutenant. Keep the sergeant alive, if you can,” he added.
“Of course, sir,” My voice sounded flat, memories of artillery fire shaking the ground above my head, blotting out my current surroundings. As I felt the acrid scent of burning wool and human flesh reach my nose, I was suddenly jostled free of the flashbacks by Wes’s voice.
“Sorry about that, Lieutenant,” he commented quickly, as we left the room. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ve never been on the front lines.”
“Chance,” I murmured, coming to my senses.
“Chance, yes,” he corrected himself.
“It’s fine, just…” I trailed off, shaking my hand quickly in the air, “Let’s talk about something else; we have a wolf to hunt. You mentioned a werewolf earlier. What did you mean?”
He gave me a strange look, adjusting his cap. “It’s a legend--a man who turns into a wolf during the full moon.” We kept walking, soon leaving the Special Courier Service headquarters entirely. “I must admit that I am somewhat surprised you’ve never heard of them.”
“I didn’t pay much attention to fairy tales before I joined the SCS,” I said with a quiet laugh. “Now, I spend more time living them than reading them.”
“Well,” Wes began, “The legend specifically states that they can only be killed with silver, and that their bite is infectious. If you are bitten, you become a werewolf as well.”
“Let’s avoid that if we can,” I said, “If everything goes well, we should be able to hunt the thing down and tag it from a hundred yards away. Nice, clean and easy.”
“You’re very confident of your aim,” Wes said dryly, “And your tracking skills, it would seem.”
“I have good reason, on both accounts. This won’t be the first predator I’ve tracked and killed.” I was smirking now, any thoughts of Fort Vaux and the Battle of Verdun gone and forgotten. “My father taught me to track and shoot. I made a decent bit of pocket money when I was younger, hunting coyote. The local farmers would pay a bounty.”
“A strange profession for a young girl,” Wes remarked.
“Almost as strange as my current job,” I quipped quickly in response. “The major knows my past; he didn’t choose us for this job at random. So long as this doesn’t turn out to be a German plot, it should be a fairly simple first mission for you.”
“That’s something to be thankful for, but I would prefer not to go into it overconfidently,” he said.
“A virtue you possess and I certainly don’t.” I grinned, jamming my hands into my uniform jacket pockets. “Humility is for the British.”
“Must you be such a stereotype?” Wes lamented, and I could see the slow whorl of lifting smoke from the rail yards and the engines within.
“Stereotypes have to come from somewhere, don’t they?” I said haughtily, climbing the stairs to the ticket counter.
“Yet you get so heated when someone makes remarks about your gender.”
“That’s different.” I shot a glare back at him, sliding our SCS ticket vouchers across the counter to the cashier. “I’m okay with people assuming that I’m a loud, obnoxious crack shot just because I’m American. I’m far less positive about people assuming I’m weak and useless just because I’m a woman.”
“Something you won’t have to worry about from me.” Wes defended himself, taking his train ticket as I retrieved them from the man at the counter. “It’s hard to think of someone as weak and useless when you’ve personally seen her kill a dragon.”
“An excellent outlook on things; keep that up and we’ll get along just fine.” I stopped, holding a finger to my lower lip. “Although I don’t think one merely kills dragons. You slay them.”
“I will have to take your word for it, as I have never done so myself.” He reached into his satchel, coming free with a stack of papers. “Should we make a preliminary plan while we travel?”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that you should get sleep when you can.” I fell into a seat in the general passenger car, crossing my right leg over my left knee. “We’ll have plenty of time to plan once we have the full picture.”
* * * * *
The town of Saint Chely was barely a blip on the map, a main thoroughfare that possessed the basic amenities of civilization and a handful of cross-streets that did not. The train could only bring us as far as Toulouse, and we’d had to appropriate a pair of horses for the remainder of the trek. As much as I was growing comfortable with the Colt 1911 that sat beneath my left arm, I couldn’t help but feel more at home with the Karibiner 98 strapped across my torso. The high caliber rifle that occasionally bounced against my back had a familiarity that I hadn’t realized I was missing.
Of course, more than a few of the passing townsfolk gave me a particularly strange look as I sauntered past on my cavalry horse. I had to admit that I painted an interesting picture, and despite the British uniform and German gun, it had been some time since I’d felt so blatantly American. There was a certain ease in the saddle, a familiarity with the rifle that I felt gave a different impression than the stiff and formal British Cavalry. Wes, on the other hand, looked the part of a confused British cavalryman, sitting high and poised on his own horse. He’d settled on a heavy Webley revolver, a make that I personally couldn’t stand, and a trenchgun that I fully approved of. The former was in a holster at his waist, while the latter was firmly held against the side of his saddle.
“Lieutenant Masters!” a voice called out in French, and I turned my head until I could pinpoint the source. A stout man with a bristly moustache and deep set eyes was hurrying from the municipal building towards the pair of us. Judging by his wobbling gait and heavy breathing, hurrying was not a thing he did often. “Welcome, welcome to Saint Chely!”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the man shot right past me to Wes, reaching up to shake his hand heartily. I pressed my lips into a firm line, bringing my horse about with a slight stamping of hooves.
“Oh no.” Wes looked mortified, shaking his head quickly. “Did he say… Bloody hell, does he think I’m you?”
The man still stood beaming on the ground, tucking a leather-bound journal beneath his arm.
“So it would seem,” I said, my voice cold. Bringing one leg up and over the saddle, I dropped heavily to the ground. The movement caught the attention of the man, who looked across at me with a curious expression. His head whipped back and forth, and he seemed to evaluate the rank insignia on our respective uniforms. Rather than grasping the situation, he seemed even more confused.
“Lieutenant Eve Masters. I hear you have a problem.” I spoke in perfectly native French, crossing my arms.
“They sent a woman?” To his credit, the man said this in a way that indicated pure confusion, rather than any underlying hostility.
“They sent an officer of the Special Courier Service,” I began, closing the distance between myself and the moustached city official. “And a hunter, as you said you were in need of someone to kill a beast.”
“Well, yes, certainly,” the man agreed hesitantly, eyes darting from my polished boots to the top of my officer’s cap. “I just can’t imagine a woman hunter, let alone one using a gun like that.”
“You’ve never heard of Annie Oakley?” I said with a humorless smirk, gesturing for Wes to dismount. As he was doing so, the man gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
“That is true,” he admitted, dropping the journal into his hands once again. He shuffled through the pages, and I could almost see the gears turning in his head. “I wasn’t aware that America had entered the war.”
“We haven’t, but you’re in luck.” I turned to my horse, unbuckling my bag from the saddle. “Because I have.”
“Ah! Let me have someone get that for you, Miss Masters.” The man quickly waved over one of a growing crowd of townsfolk that were circling the city center. “And forgive me for not introducing myself, I am Jean Chastel. Named for my ancestor, who originally killed the beast.”
“Lieutenant or Chance, not Miss,” I corrected, while doing my best to hold a smile that suggested no hard feelings between the two of us. A man in a vest and dusty hat took my bag, while a teenage boy quickly hoisted Wes’s luggage from the saddle of his horse. “And this is Sergeant Wesley Hartley, my partner. I’m afraid he doesn’t speak the language.” I wrinkled my nose, looking over to where Wes was stammering in English to the boy taking his bag. “It’s fine, Wes, they’re bringing it to our quarters.” I told him in English.
“Lieutenant, certainly, how very interesting!” Chastel mused, and I felt that the curiosity was somewhat easier to deal with than the average response. “But please, come, I’m sure you’d like something to drink, to eat, while we discuss what is happening.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said, gesturing for Wes to follow. He gave one final look at the crowd, obviously uncomfortable with the fact that he didn’t speak French, before we entered the main municipal building. “You said that your ancestor killed one of these beasts?”
“So the story goes. That was centuries ago, mind,” Chastel explained, settling the leather-bound volume on the surface of a long table. He spread a map of the town and surrounding areason the table. Older style gas lamps lit the room --electricity having yet to make its way this far out into the countryside. “Which is not to say he’s the only one to claim credit. The king sent many qualified hunters to Gevaudun to solve our particular problem. I’m afraid that none of our solutions seem permanent.”
We settled ourselves in at the table, Chastel seated at the head, with Wes and I across from each other. I propped my rifle up against a darkened fireplace. Chastel flipped through the pages of the journal, while a servant poured tall glasses of deep red wine.
“What damage has been caused so far?” I asked, glancing down at the book.
“Several cows have been partially devoured,” Chastel said, looking grave. “One would usually attribute this to wolves, but sadly, those of us in Saint Chely do not have the luxury of waiting to see.” He gestured to the map, tapping his fingertip against an outlined field. “And here, the first attack on a villager, Mademoiselle Renaud. She was out at dusk, retrieving water, when something assaulted her. Panic and shock dulled her senses; she could only report that it was a creature the size of a man who walked on four legs. It nearly tore her arm off, and she is still recovering at the hospital in Toulouse.”
“I see.” I looked down at the map, orienting it towards myself. “All of the attacks have been on this far western edge of the town?”
“Yes, it is true. There is an extremely dense forest on that side of the town. We suspect that the beast is using old game trails to travel quickly. I can show them to you, if you’d like.”
“I think that would be a good place to start,” I agreed, lifting the wine glass to my lips. Wes was staring down at the map and finally took a moment to look up with an imploring expression. I swallowed my wine and snorted, setting it back down on the table top. “I’ll explain later, Wes, don’t worry.”
“Perhaps I should look into learning French,” he said with a frown, sitting up in his chair.
“Perhaps,” I parroted, and looked to Chastel, who was smiling patiently. I switched languages once again and continued. “Until we find the beast, I think it would be best to keep the town under a strict curfew. No one should set foot outside of their homes while the sun is down.”
“Easy enough,” Chastel said, “Little work is done after sunset as it is.” He slid the leather-bound book my way, finally, and I could see that the pages were yellowed with age. “I do not know how much help this will be, but I brought the journal of my forefather. He mentions several things that helped him to kill the beast.” The man grimaced, glancing at my rifle resting on the mantle. “I’m afraid that your gun may not work, Lieutenant.”
I reached to the inside pocket on my jacket, drawing out the small case the major had provided. I placed it on the table, over the map, and opened the cover. Chastel peered down inside and instantly relaxed.
“I am glad to see that you’ve come prepared, I should have expected no less.” He closed the journal, but left it in front of me. “It’s too late to begin today. The sun is already far too low in the sky for me to feel safe bringing you to the forest. I’ve arranged for a room.” He paused, clearing his throat as he glanced across at Wes. “Which, I suppose, I will have to make two. This is no issue. Please, finish your drinks; I’ll see what I can do.” He offered a beaming smile and left us to our own devices, shuffling back out into the town.
“He says that the attacks have been concentrated on the outskirts of the forest,” I said to Wes, and continued to explain what I had been told. My wine steadily disappeared, and by the time I had laid out the circumstances, a cheerful older woman had arrived with Chastel. She wore a plain house dress, threadbare in all the areas consistent with a life of house work and a small town sensibility. Her hair was dark, but beginning to gray at the temples. She had an easy, beaming smile that radiated comfort.
“Lieutenant Masters, Madame Baudricourt has offered you a room with her daughter, if you do not mind sharing. Given the circumstances, it is the only configuration that makes sense.” He offered a wince, holding his hands open and to either side. “Sergeant Hartley will have the empty room, by virtue of gender. I beg your pardon, and please understand it is not a slight on your rank or skill.”
“Oh, that’s certainly fine,” I said quickly, feeling a hint of color rise to my cheeks. “I completely understand and would hate to put anyone out.” Rarely, my somewhat prickly nature came back to bite me, and it was clear that my first impression had been more adversarial than needed. I plucked the journal from the table top and slung my rifle back over my shoulder. “Thank you for your hospitality, Madame.”
“Certainly, Miss Masters.” The woman was beaming and took my arm. “After all, you’ve volunteered to go out and hunt the beast. That’s more than I can say for half of the men in the village.”
“You, with me,” Chastel said in severely broken English, grinning all the while, and I shot a smirk over my shoulder at Wes.
“If all else fails, try charades!” I said. He gave me an imploring look, but Madame Baudricourt and I were already passing out into the increasingly chilled night air.
“My daughter will love you, of course,” she explained quickly, “Monsieur Chastel has told me you are from the United States. She absolutely tears through American novels as if they were pamphlets.” Her face fell, barely, “I do worry about the torrid subject matter, but you’ve obviously turned out just fine, and you live there!”
“Er, yes,” I answered awkwardly, led across the street to a well-kept, two story chateaux. A variety of flowers spilled forth from boxes beneath each window, each lit by a warm, flickering firelight from within. The town was small, cramped in a way that only Europe could manage, and a far cry from my own home town. Still, the warmth and obvious care put me at ease in a way that I had rarely felt since joining the war.
The living room was similarly cluttered, well-kept, and bright. A set of small couches surrounded a worn but charming little rug, and various family portraits hung from every wall. A lanky, piebald cat announced our arrival and immediately stalked over to press itself against my shins appreciatively.
“Ah, look at that! Filbert rarely likes strangers. You should feel honored,” Madame Baudricourt said with a well-intentioned laugh, leaning down to give the cat a quick scratch behind the ears.
This completed, she shuffled herself further into the house, calling out, “Isabelle, come meet our guest!” She smiled over her shoulder, patting her hands against either side of her dress, an action I’d already seen several times. It seemed to be a habit. Our attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and I looked up to see a girl several years younger than me bound down the stairs. Her hair was dark, like her mother’s, but lustrous and immaculately braided. Her skirt and blouse were plain and functional, dark blue and flowing--her features delicate and pleasant. She was shorter than me, just below average, but still with time to grow. She paused in her descent, when she first saw me. Her bright blue eyes shot down, taking in the look of my uniform with a curious, confused expression. Her eyes then went wide when they noticed the rifle at my shoulder.
“I don’t understand,” Isabelle said with a laugh, looking to her mother. “Is she?”
“This is Miss Eve Masters. She’s here to kill the beast!” Madame Baudricourt announced proudly, standing up tall as she addressed her daughter. Isabelle looked between the two of us with an awe that increasingly made the situation awkward. “Miss Masters, this is Isabelle, my daughter.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, clearing my throat soon after.
“You’re not French,” she announced, disregarding my greeting. She came down the last few stairs, standing firmly on the ground floor. “British?”
“American!” Madame Baudricourt answered for me, before stepping backwards into the kitchen. “I’ll leave you two to introduce yourselves. Isabelle, make sure you show the lieutenant to her bed!”
“You’re really in the military?” Isabelle asked quietly, reaching out to run her fingertips along the sleeve of my uniform. “How is that possible?”
“Technically, I’m not.” I argued, unslinging my rifle. “The Special Courier Service acts outside of military jurisdiction, but has authority within the structure.”
She looked at me with rapt attention and a complete lack of understanding.
“Sure, I’m in the military,” I said, hiding my exasperation.
“And you can shoot?” She pointed to the rifle, eyes twinkling.
“Better than most,” I said haughtily, before defusing the arrogance with a grin. “But I’m exhausted. Maybe I can tell you about it while I clean up?”
“Oh, of course!” she squeaked, reaching out to grab my hand. Her own felt small through my leather glove, and she led me up the stairs and through a small hall to the bedroom. It was tiny and quaint and fit the rest of the house. Someone had brought an army cot and blankets for me, a gesture that I greatly appreciated.
“I’m sure my mother told you, she doesn’t approve after all, but I adore American fiction. It’s all so exciting!” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, have you ever had to fight off Indians?”
“Er, no.” I laughed awkwardly, setting my rifle in the corner of the room. “I’ve never been to the West. I’m from Maryland. Strictly Germans.”
“Oh,” she said disappointedly as she sat on the edge of her bed. It took a moment for the second half of my statement to sink in. “Wait, you’ve fought the Germans?”
“We’re all fighting the Germans,” I said cautiously, realizing the path the conversation could take. I undid my pistol belt, folding it carefully on top of a night stand before setting my officer’s cap on top.
“Well, yes, certainly, but you know what I mean!” she whined good-naturedly.
“I do, and I have. My actions at Verdun were one of the main reasons I ended up in the SCS.” I swallowed heavily, undoing the button at my throat. The wool collar of my uniform jacket opened, and I felt like I could breathe just one iota better.
“Do you think they’d let me join the army?” She leaned forward, with great interest in my answer. “I bet I could learn to shoot!”
“I bet you could,” I said with a laugh, shrugging out of my jacket. “I started as a field nurse. It was only through very unpleasant circumstances that I was conscripted into a fighting role.”
“Will you tell me about it?” she asked insistently, and I winced.
“I don’t really like to talk about it,” I murmured, throwing my jacket over the back of a chair. “Why don’t I tell you about my time with the courier service instead?”
She was just as enthusiastic about my courier adventures as she had been about my military service. I told her about my stumbling fight through the Paris catacombs while I washed my face and hands in the large bowl of cool water at the corner of the room. She dressed for bed as well, alternately excited and terrified by my descriptions of the claustrophobic tunnels and the creature that had hunted me. Boots kicked off, I fell onto the available cot with a happy sigh, and Isabelle snuffed out the light.
“You’ll be able to kill the beast, won’t you?” I heard Isabelle ask quietly. “Everyone is afraid to go out. They’re saying that it can’t be killed.”
I folded my hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling.
“I don’t lose, Isabelle.” The answering silence was enough to tell me that she had accepted my boast, even if she didn’t believe it.
