Chapter 1


My grandfather was crazy.
But he was never wrong.

I only wish I'd had that kind of foresight early on. My father's father had built a small fortune, then promptly gone insane, letting my father take the reins of the "family business". Granddad always believed he was being either hunted or aided by magical beings, though he couldn't be bothered to describe why or which at any given time, and the family let it go as harmless and played along, even the most malicious of cousins.

After all: always be nice to your crazy, rich relative. As a cub I wanted to believe, I never wanted my so-called destiny, to run my grandfathers museum, collecting ancient doo-dads and colorful, long broken mechanisms buried by dead civilizations. I wanted to help my grandfather to find these mystical beings. We always looked forward to summers together, spent in the forests beside his estate, looking for wood nymphs and eating berries until I got sick.

Imagine my surprise when Granddad passed, and in his will he left my mother (my father had passed after a bout with pneumonia two years earlier) the rights to the museum, and every penny of his money, while the estate was splits amongst his other sons and daughters. He left me, his twenty-four year-old, and at the time youngest, grandson, the location of a buried tin can, scribbled on a sheaf of loose paper, and a note: 

Wil, don't stop looking.

love, Granddad.

And that was it. Wilhelm Dravere; Beloved grandson, historian, finder of old tin cans. It was six years before I finally convinced myself to find that can. Six years of hunting down ancient doo-dads and colorful, long-broken mechanisms, buried by dead civilizations. Just like Granddad taught me, I never stopped looking for those long coveted artifacts, taking them from those dusty catacombs and tombs, so they could collect dust in the museum's great halls and displays.

***

We rattled to a chugging halt on a paved dirt runway somewhere outside of Dartford just before noon. Middle of nowhere, Granddad's hometown. And by "we" I mean my pilot and I. It was a chilly, tumultuous ride in the passenger seat of what had once been a Cessna two-seater before the pilot's ceaseless tinkerings. Now it's prop-engine roared with overdrive, and something was loose because never before had I seen a plane vibrate like this one had. The pilot, a heavily overgrown canid that smelled perpetually of wet dog, had spent the whole trip trying to offer me cigars and I had spent it trying not to suffocate of the cloud of tobacco smoke after I found the window's didn't open more than an inch.

I stepped down onto the packed earth beside the ticking craft, praising the virtues of solid earth, and finally accepted a wrapped, thin cigar and a rib-cracking slap on the back as I bothered the pilot for directions.
"Jus' keep goin' thattaway." he had said, exhaling a mist of smoke and pointing East.
I thanked him with a cash tip and took a taxi from the one room "airport". It wasn't shabby, nor a particularly rough part of the English countryside, it just seemed like ghetto-chic had taken hold of it by the throat. Quaint.

The taxi slid to a halt on the gravel shore, the Thames gray water roaring unhindered beside my door. Another twenty pound tip and my reassurances that I was both certain of the location and not crazy and I watched the old truck rumble back onto the road and wait for my return. 

With a deep breath, I waded into the fall waters.

Sweet merciful God, but it was cold. I had followed every instruction, every direction. An illustration on a map, plus coordinates and landmarks. It had better be here, I wasn't sure if I had it in me to look again once the cold drove me back onto the shore.
The frigid waters rolling over my shins and soaking my pant legs, i steeled myself and reached in. Half-numb fingers found their way to the silty bottom. My heart stopped. 

My fingers had closed over something not particularly native to the English waterways and I heaved it up. Fingers gone almost blue, they were nevertheless secure around the half-dissolved canvas sack. I leaned back down, forgetting the cold for a moment, digging my fingers under the gravel, not wanting to tear the sack and risk losing it's contents to the stream. All at once I heaved the mess back onto shore and scrambled after it, the Thames squelching out of my boots.

I pulled my woolen peacoat more tightly around my body, feeling my black fur stand on end as goosebumps raised all along my flesh. But still...
The bag was truly there. No mistake, I had hurled a medium sized canvas bag onto the shore, half eaten by the years, there was still a lump of something in it's canvas skin.

Hands shaking in cold and excitement, I crouched, tugging the bag open and reaching in. I think back now, even then I knew better than to stick my hands into strange bags. It's impolite. But I was far too excited, finding that Granddad had really hidden something for me to find, like the scavenger hunts as a kid that would lead me to some trinket or gift.

I think back now, and I'm still amazed by what he had hidden. With far too much reverence, my cold hands pulled form the bag a rusted but still identifiable tin can of Royal Crown. Hair grease. I waited six years to find my Granddad's favorite brand of pomade. I wasn't the kind of lad, from childhood to now, who was known to explode with emotions. But I came fairly close to screaming in frustration and hurling that can like a skipping stone, but something stayed my hand. Bitter, head shaking, I stuffed the can into my pocket and stared at the distant skyline.

What the hell was that, Granddad? I thought to myself. I could see the flying buttresses of an old gothic Cathedral, standing above the husks of trees stripped by the season, that had probably watched over my Grandfather some fifty years ago as he buried that sack. Wil, don't stop looking...

More than the disappointment of this "find" I found myself genuinely heartbroken. I had never once believed my Granddad to be insane, I didn't see him like the rest of the family. But sending me to hunt down a buried can of pomade? 

It was a long, silent trudge back to the taxi. I don't remember talking much, though the cabby had apparently sensed my mood called for talking all the way into Dartford. He talked. I sulked. I checked into a nicely furnished hotel. I hadn't come solely for the can, I had a meeting at the Dartford Borough Museum. It had simply been a perfect time for this little treasure hunt on the side.

I had thumped up to my room, (no luggage for me, it would only be a day trip) tossed my still wet boots in front of the door, dropped my coat and flopped down on the thin bed. As I closed my eyes, watery blue light streamed in through the window. When I opened them again it was pitch black. Jet lag had apparently caught up with me.

Bleary eyed and startled I fumbled across the bedside table, finding an ancient looking kerosene lamp. Thankfully it lit as soon as I found the nozzle, bathing me and most of the room with it's orange glow. Well. What an exciting day. I washed my face and relieved myself in the one foot by one foot washroom and dropped back down onto the bed, drying my face with a hand towel that smelled moldy but looked clean in the firelight.

I caught sight of myself in the standing mirror across from myself and started. It took a moment to recognize myself. A dark, lupine figure stared back, amber eyes baleful. Was I, the lad who spent whole days covered in mud until my mother could catch me, truly sitting here in chino's, braces hooked over the shoulders of my undershirt, fur spotless? My black peacoat, piled on the floor was spotless, silver buttons gleaming in the light. In six years, had I gone from Indiana Jones to...to my father? 

My father had spent his days covered in bookdust and ink stains, cataloguing the things I had brought him, while I healed fleshwounds and broken bones with a bottle of brandy and days of sleep. 
Then my father died. Followed by Granddad. I stared at my hands, and though my fur was already dark, I couldn't hide the black stains on my nails and pads. Only my boots survived this change. Ten hard years had scuffed the brown leather to a matte black, and they were comfortable. So damn comfortable it would take an army to make me change for dress shoes.

I retrieved my coat, tired of looking at my reflection. Dad's old peacoat was so far removed from my short leather jacket, but still it had a reassuring weight to it, and a good length. Not a bad trade. Still smelled like him sometimes too. As I folded it (something I couldn't have even attempted a few years ago) something clanged to the ground and rolled under the bed. Realization chased off the early surprised. I had to chuckle a little as I dug the pomade can out from under the bed.

"So what made you special?" I murmured, my reflection gazing down at it's own can. I tried to twist it open, only to find it stuck fast. The hell? Thinking rust, I turned it on it's side, angling toward the lamp to see the real culprit. Blue wax. Miraculously uneaten after all this time.

Curious again, I held it over the lamp's the flame, keeping my fingers out of range as the naked flame re-melted the wax, which dripped and ran down the lamps glass. Whoops. Soon I felt I had melted enough and, without thinking, used the handtowel to wipe off any molten excess. Double-whoops.
I twisted it again, but again it resisted. I put a little elbow into it, gripping tightly and finally it popped open with a loud pop and oddly the smell of lilacs.

I looked into both sides. Empty. Wait no...not empty. Their was a single strip of paper, like the ones inside a fortune cookie. As I reached in for it, an arc of powerful electric that I could have sworn came from the paper, no matter how impossible, zapped me, blackening the nail on my pointer finger. With a startled woof I dropped the can. The ends rolled two separate ways, the paper fluttering onto my lap. I stuck the singed finger in my mouth. Okay then, not just some wild goose chase, Granddad had apparently booby-trapped it.

More wary this time, I tapped at the paper and immediately felt foolish. It's just paper after all. Only one side had writing. A name; Nadezhda. Sounds Russian.
Something caught my eye and my head whipped up, but all I saw was a wall, a mirror, and a foolishly skittish wolf, gray fur on end. Shaking my head again I collected the wayward parts of the tin, depositing them back in my coat. Booby-trapped or no, Granddad had sent me for it, I could keep and hold onto it, maybe find a spot in the museum. 

Too awake now, I slid back into my peacoat, feeling it settle on my shoulders, double checking the can was secure, pulled on my boots and thumped back down the stairs. My watch said it was coming on ten o'clock. I could take a walk, clear my head. Easy-peasy.
Thinking back, I should have stayed in my room.