Chapter Text
Sheryl’s front door is unlocked.
Normally, this should lend an immediate conclusion that the old spunky woman and her equally spunky granddaughter are home, probably in the garden or in the shed somewhere at the back of the house. As a matter of fact, being one of their favourite visitors deep in the woods like this, stumbling upon an unlocked door should offer more assurance that the occupants will greet him than, say, disquietude that heralds a portent event.
Yet, Vash can’t shake off the foreboding feeling at the utter lack of noise, at the too-torpid air that is somehow charged with a spectral tension, urging his fingers to itch for the handle of his colt strapped to his thigh. What with the recent news of numerous beast attacks and raids slowly grazing from one town to another for the past couple of months, everyone in Karsted City now deems it wise – if not necessary – to keep themselves armed at all times.
So, falling into the precautionary methods that a lot of the folks have adopted, Vash keeps one on his person against his better judgment. Really, he would very much prefer it if children don’t suddenly regard him with a level of cynicism that is otherwise reserved for grown men with empty troughs for lungs. It doesn’t paint a welcoming picture, see, not when he has spent nearly half of his lifetime trying to become charming. It’s not an easy task, considering his … uncanny inherent disposition.
Obviously, his brother has many bones to pick with his premises, deeming them excessive – if not ostentatious – under the actual threat lurking amidst them. As if they can’t also potentially place everyone in great peril should it come down to it. “Just hide it in that big red cloak of yours,” Nai had insisted once, shoving a gun into Vash’s hands, having picked it up from the mutilated body of someone foolish enough to face a demon with a .22 revolver. Easy for him to say, given Vash’s “magical deficiency”. Some warlock that he is. “Nobody’s going to start doing random checks on you, you know.”
That, Vash would beg to differ. The number of times that Vash was stopped at random on the street by patrol enforcers could border violation, but it’s nothing he hadn’t handled with a jab to the abdomen or an uppercut. Still, Vash had conceded, if only to mollify his brother’s paranoia-infused demands than pick up an old habit he has long since abandoned since the Enlightenment period. They’re both pushing 150, for heaven’s sake. You would think the twins are separated by a 10-year age gap with the way Nai fusses over him sometimes.
But oh, if only his brother sees him now, right at this second, instead of being multiple towns away dealing with a bunch of greedy men trying to attain immortality. Vash can just hear the I told you so visually sneering at the back of his head.
Pausing at the front porch, Vash places the bundles of new pots near an array of vases and peers through the window. It’s nearing dusk, with the sun already spilling its final rays of the day across the horizon, yet the house is dark with no sound or sight of activity at all. At this kind of hour, he’d usually find Sheryl bustling in the kitchen to make dinner while Lina would be found hopping in and out to fetch some raw ingredients.
Too quiet.
He tries the doorknob again, as if he’d imagined it twisting completely the first time. Intruder? he thinks, recalling the news of a girl trespassing someone’s home and raiding everything in it – including eating up all of their meals. There’s a similar one before that, except this time a girl – abandoned by her parents – cleaned the house and prepped some dinner.
Knowing this could be worse than simply a girl wandering into a stranger’s home, Vash sets off for the back door with the spare key Sheryl gave him a while back. Here, his apprehensions are further confirmed when the back door unlocks. He can’t decide which prospect would quell his dreads more between hoping to find both ladies inside the house or not.
He deliberately pushes open the door, remembering at the last second to keep it at an angle to miss the squeak. Right. Need to lubricate that again, he makes a mental note as he grips the edge of the door, heart thundering in his ears. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is unlit, with the pots and pans still stowed away in their respective racks and cabinets. A kettle sitting atop a hearth indicates that it hasn’t been picked up since breakfast. Above the sink, the blinds are drawn. Grandma Sheryl may be old, but she’s very meticulous when it comes to home security. There is just no way she would leave the front door unlocked.
Vash steps further inside, drawing his colt out of its sheath and keeping it near his thigh. He halts at the threshold of the living room with a slightly hitched breath, eyes sweeping across its ransacked condition. With the coffee table and sofas shoved right up to the wall, it looked like someone had been thrashing on the rug at the centre of the room, knocking frames and books and vases (the ones that he made last year, with love) to the floor. White dust scattered along the skirting of the wall and around the perimeter of the living room forms a trail towards one of the bedrooms. From here, Vash shifts his thumb to cock his gun beneath his cloak, praying against all odds that it doesn’t click too loud.
A rustle from the bedroom instantly draws his attention. From where he’s standing, he can just make out a dark figure hunched on the bed, unmoving, yet vibrating with an ominous energy that he has been picking up from outside.
“Good evening!” Vash chirps, straightening up just slightly to get a better look at the figure.
The true Grandma Sheryl response would be somewhere along the line of “Evenin’, dear! Don’t just stand there!”. At times, Lina likes to barrel into him, whining, “Took you long enough!”. This time, he receives neither. Not that he’s expecting one in the first place, having gone through the state of the house and narrowed down his speculations.
So Vash shuffles closer, perching his finger on the trigger. His strange companion still doesn’t budge. Yet, there’s no doubt that he’s being watched; can feel it burning holes in his forehead at every breath he takes. Until finally, when his eyes gradually adjust in the darkness, enough to trace the silhouette of a big, hunching figure, every nerve and fibre in his body flares into alertness.
“Big ears you’ve got there, grandma,” he remarks, keeping his tone light.
The thing, person, figure, shifts just faintly. For a moment, Vash takes it he won’t get any verbal response any time soon, or ever. But then a low, guttural sound rumbles from the bed. “So I can hear you come in, dear …”
Vash plays along. “I’m sure there’s no need for that,” he says airily. “Considering those large eyes you’ve got.”
“I can see you better like this,” the voice rumbles again in a pathetic attempt at mimicking an old lady’s voice. “Just like your big glasses, dear.”
There’s a growl that rattles out at the end of the last word, prompting Vash to raise his revolver from his cloak, careful not to cause any sudden movement. “It’s funny,” he begins again, spreading his legs and locking his knees. “I don’t remember you having large hands or a big mouth, grandma.”
It happens so quickly that Vash would have been toppled over had it not been for his reflexes alone.
With a snarl, a wolf (werewolf, he realises instantly, understanding its sheer size) leaps up from the mattress, wasting no time in bounding its way towards Vash. Already bracing for this kind of impact, Vash steps sideways, barely missing a gaping muzzle aimed right at his prosthesis. The werewolf comes careening into a dresser before it rights itself up again, facing Vash with bared fangs.
“You look way more delicious than those two ladies that live here,” growls the werewolf, wasting no time before it vaults on him.
This time, Vash grabs it by its flanks and redirects the force, sending the werewolf crashing into a wooden coffer at the corner of the room. It tries to snap its jaw closed around his wrist, but yelps when Vash brings down the bottom grip of his revolver hard onto its neck. “Where are they?” he grits out, scrambling to his feet and aiming for one of its flanks.
The shot rings out just as the werewolf regains its balance, diving right at him and causing the bullet to graze its hind leg instead. The brush strike manages to divert it just momentarily before it gains the upper hand by collapsing onto him, knocking Vash flat on his back and snarling into his face. He wheezes as the paws press into his chest, and that same guttural sound rattles out once more. “You should do just fine—”
Vash’s knee finds purchase on its underbelly, and he kicks it backwards with enough force to send it crashing into the windows. “All right, that’s enough,” he grits out, panting as he aims the barrel of his revolver again. Dimly, he registers that this werewolf is a bit weak. Not that he’s fought them on a daily basis, but something of that size surely can’t simply topple over from a mere kick to the tummy? He usually considers them his rival when it comes to a one-on-one wrestle.
Vash fires, hitting the werewolf’s flank. The startled yelp it lets out is only akin to someone stubbing their toe. “Copper?” it hisses in disbelief, slowly getting back on its hind legs, at the same time Vash realises his blunder. “That’s cute—”
“It’s – well, it’s brass, actually—”
“You’re gonna make a fine meal, pretty boy!”
It bounds on him from the windowsill, and Vash locks his bearing once more, unrelenting despite knowing the futility of his stupid brass ammunition. Bringing a sword to a gunfight. Idiot!
He draws his gun just in time for the sharp whistle of air to zip past him, raising goosebumps in its wake. Spared only half a second to blink at the sudden intrusion of activity, the next thing he knows, there’s a whole damn silver arrow embedded at the werewolf’s chest. When he blinks again, clearing his head from spiralling out of his neck, the werewolf topples over and crumples to the floor, blood pooling out beneath it from where the arrow had pierced through its skin.
“Yikes, tha’s gonna stain,”
Vash wheels around, unaware of how erratic his heartbeat has become under the fracas. Outside, on the front porch with the door now swung fully open, stands a man clad in mostly black; from his hat, the vest adorning a blemished white tunic and down to his worn leather boots. A black, ornate crossbow rests in his arms, and he regards the whole situation with an apathetic flick of his eyebrows, yet somehow these features sit well with his rugged appearance altogether.
Vash’s mouth finally remembers its job. “Who are—”
“Vash!”
Not for the first time, he staggers backwards at the familiar cannon force of Lina’s tackle-hug. Her thin arms engulf his middle to the point of needing medical attention and squeezing his lunch from his guts. But Vash simply rests his chin on top of her head, deflating with utter relief at the mere sight of her. “Lina,” he wheezes out, hugging her back. “Where have you—”
A punch to his chest knocks the breath completely out of his lungs, like he hasn’t had enough of that for the past 15 minutes. He bites back a hiss, if only to look at the tears pooling in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she cries, regarding his banged-up state. “We were – you weren’t—”
“Hey, hey, I was just delivering the pots your grandmother ordered,” he assures her with a small laugh, ruffling her hair. “But then …”
He glances at the werewolf, completely dead to the world now, otherwise already reverted back to its human form. When he returns his attention to her, Lina is making such a painful attempt to avert her eyes from the body. “Vash … Vash … Grandma suspected something had been watching us,” she whimpers, fisting the front of Vash’s cloak.
“Is Sheryl okay? Where is she?”
“Yes, she’s in town, resting at—” she seems to remember something as she’s gesturing at the door. “Oh! That’s, um … that’s … Mr Wolfwood, by the way.”
Vash follows her gaze and meets the other man’s eyes. Upon hearing his name being mentioned, the black-clad man merely tips his head in acknowledgement. “And Mr Wolfwood is …?” Vash begins, as if he’s supposed to recognise that strange man with his equally strange-looking crossbow. There’s a hint of a crucifix incorporated seamlessly into its prod and tiller, making the overall design look way bigger than the standard-shaped crossbow weaponry that archers normally wield.
“Hunter,” the man drawls at once. He takes this as a cue to approach them with a laidback gait imbued with the right amount of poise that serves as a warning to the next fool looking for trouble. All at once, Vash knows better not to end up at the receiving end of his bad side. “Nicholas D. Wolfwood, at your service.”
The man tips his hat up once more with a lazily practised smile, the ghost of a sneer dimpling the corner of his mouth. Like the rest of his getup, his charcoal-grey eyes glisten with subdued mischief behind a pair of dark shades. Vash detects the smell of cigarette smoke lingering on his person.
He also realises that Nicholas D. Wolfwood is talking to him. “I – uh – Savarem!” he holds up his hand, remembering his manners embarrassingly late. “Vash Savarem.”
“Pretty name for a pretty face,” Wolfwood grins as he shakes his hand before addressing Lina. “Family? Uncle?”
“He’s our close friend, so he’s kind of like family,” she answers, tightening her grip around Vash’s forearm like this Wolfwood guy is going to steal Vash away from her. “He’s a good man, that’s why Grandma likes him!”
Wolfwood flicks his gaze at Vash in that indolent manner of his. “Bet she does,”
Cheeks flushing, Vash regains his composure before something stupid leaves his mouth without the heavy monitoring of his brain. It’s suddenly so hot in here. Winter is just creeping in. “Is her grandmother safe?” he asks Wolfwood.
“Don’t worry ‘bout ol’ Sheryl. Spunky woman, I’ll tell ya that,” Wolfwood puts a half-chewed cigarette between his lips. “She’s stayin’ at an inn for the time being. Her and a lotta other folks too scared to return to their houses.”
Vash blinks at the man, then at Lina. Then he looks back at the dead man on the floor, finally noting the rather unique tattoo on his back now that the coat of fur has finally receded into his skin. Some creative interpretation of a cross; with a circle sitting at the intersection of where a horizontal line cuts across a row of three vertical lines. “Lina, you hired a hunter?”
“I told you, we thought something was lurking around the house for a while,” Lina explains once more. “She said we should look for help before it’s too late. You heard the news of werewolf attacks too, right, Vash?”
“Yes, I—”
“And they’re everywhere,” she adds on. “So we figured, with werewolves wandering around, surely there would be hunters also looking for them? That’s when we found Mr Wolfwood here in Karsted!”
“You could’ve asked me for help, too,” Vash tells her, partly – guiltily – offended.
“With brass bullets, blondie?” Wolfwood inserts with a cocked eyebrow. A hint of a dry scoff sits behind that statement. “Though, I admit; you were holdin’ up just fine.”
“I didn’t know there was a werewolf hiding in here!” Vash argues. “Why was he hiding in here anyway? Nobody was home.”
“Well, I … um, I set up an array to trap it while we went out looking for help,” Lina explains with a small sigh. “But I don’t think it worked that well. You got attacked, Vash. I’m sorry about that.”
Which explains the white dust and the werewolf’s weakened state. Vash bends slightly to meet Lina’s eyes, now swimming with guilt. “Hey, I’m okay. You did pretty well, Lina, for someone starting out,” he smiles at her. “We’ll workshop your rune skills more if you want to immobilise supernatural beings.”
At this, she beams at him. Meanwhile, Wolfwood lets out a light huff of laughter. “Seems to me you guys don’t need me around that much, huh?” he says, approaching the dead man with a keen interest as he lights his cigarette.
“Did you have to kill him, though?” Vash asks.
“Not every time,” comes Wolfwood’s blasé response. “This one? A fatal blow should do the trick.”
Vash watches Wolfwood nudge the body with the toe of his boot. With the man’s head ducked, his face is completely obscured by the brim of his hat, but the air of early mischief seems to dissipate by the steady stiffening of his shoulders. “Why, is he different or something?” Vash asks carefully.
“Or somethin’,” Wolfwood points the stirrup of his crossbow on the tattoo. “See that, blondie? Thing on his back?”
“Looks like a cross,” Vash observes.
Wolfwood nods. “Eye of Michael. Heard of ‘em?”
“Just word in passing,” he replies. Nai may be more familiar with that kind of department. His brother is no stranger to humans dabbling in spiritual affairs. “A cult, right?”
“One that hires packs for freaky cult shit,” he scoffs. “Those guys love fresh meat.”
He says this with a concerned glance at Lina, who appears to want to shrink inside Vash’s cloak but doesn’t want to admit her fears. Instead, she puffs her chest in every bit the display of a brave young spirit. “I’m not afraid of some cult!”
At this, Wolfwood finally chuckles. “Tha’s the kind of spirit we all need, young lady,” he acknowledges.
“And if we don’t have it?” she fires.
“Then children disappear,” Wolfwood mutters, glancing away.
“They’re that dangerous, huh?” Vash says listlessly.
“Nothing you can’t handle, right, blondie?”
“Wait, what—”
“Y’all need to head to town soon,” Wolfwood waves his hand at them dismissively. “Best leave this place ‘til the beasts clear out. Could take a while.”
“And you’re going to handle that all by yourself?” Vash asks.
The man half-shrugs. “I normally work alone – a lonewolf, as you may call it,” he snorts. “But, y’know, I could use a competent partner.”
Vash crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t help but remember you mocking my ammo a few minutes ago, Mr Wolfwood,” he deepens his voice to a rasp. “Brass bullets.”
“Did I say that? Pretty sure I said you were holdin’ up pretty well,” he wiggles his finger towards Vash’s colt. “Good shot, too.”
Vash blinks. “Wait, so were you just standing out there the whole time?”
“Not the whole time,” the man scoffs. “Wouldn’t wanna distract a beast currently locked in, see. Didn’t wanna trigger the rest of the pack – if they’re around. Best I could do was bid my time and wait for a clear shot. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Vash regards this man for a moment. He doesn’t look older than 30, yet there’s something about his casual bearing that narrates a whole lifetime of cultivated indifference. “You seem to know a lot about werewolves, Mr Wolfwood,”
“And you don’t?” Wolfwood cocks an eyebrow at him, his gaze lingering somewhat on his eyes. “Aren’t you a warlock, Vash Savarem?”
So he’s seen through Vash’s enchanted glasses. “I don’t really like pottering in those affairs, I’ll have you know,” Vash informs. “I’m a stick-to-my-pottery hobby kinda guy.”
“The wisest decision any man can make indeed,” Wolfwood nods solemnly.
“Not to interrupt the flirting, but,” Lina cuts in, “are you actually gonna do something with the body?”
“Burn it, hang it, sell it for parts, boil it,” Wolfwood lists with unnecessary graphics. “Leave it to me, kiddo. I’ll bill ya when I’m done.”
Vash scrunches his nose. “You’re charging your services?”
“Gotta live like a civilised person somehow, Robin Hood,” Wolfwood grunts. “But because you managed to trap it and fight it, I’ll give you a quarter off.”
“C’mon, give us half!” Lina protests. “Those runes weren’t easy to make, you know.”
“Fine. Close to half – only ‘cause your friend’s pretty,” Wolfwood winks at Vash.
“Unbelievable,”
“Hey, you’ll never find a more professional hunter like me, missy,” he points out. “I’m not called ‘Wolfwood’ for nothin’. Gotta be a sellin’ point, right? Imagine if I hand out my business card with ‘Nick’ instead – you’ll think I’m a moron with ass for brains.”
For all of his brazen statements, Vash believes this Wolfwood guy actually means well. Cheeky, sure. Maybe seconds away from getting into his own pants. But he discovers that he doesn’t mind if Wolfwood sticks around the town for some more. Call him foolish, but the man did just, after all, save their lives.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Wolfwood bends down to heave the body onto his shoulder while his other arm still supports the crossbow. “Still got a job to do.”
He’s lugging the body on his way out of the house before Vash calls him. “Will we see you again?”
Wolfwood glances over his shoulder and catches Vash’s eyes. “I’ll find ya,” he says int the filter of his cigarette. “Doncha worry your pretty head.”