Her master must have been restored by his night’s sleep. To all appearances, gone was his hesitation of the previous night. Again, he was the embittered old man she was familiar with, for which Vero was thankful. She found it a much simpler and more direct matter to hate him like that.

They broke down the camp together wordlessly. They acted automatically through the familiar motions. It was common for them to remain silent for long stretches at a time, but this morning the silence seemed heavier. However, if her master was uninterested in discussing what had happened the previous night, then Vero was more than happy to put it out of her mind as well.

When Vero collected her snares, she found them all empty. She had put them along good rabbit runs, but it seemed Luna had chosen to lead the hares away from the shining wire. It would be dried meat again for supper, and they were already on short rations.

“We’ll go back to the village and see what fate has brought us with a new dawn.” Her master’s voice was so stoic as to give the impression that he had never known a moment’s indecision in his life, though Vero could spy that his hands were still shaking.

On another morning, she might have managed some impertinent remark. This particular morning, Vero felt much too lethargic.

She only managed a very beaten sounding, “Yes, master.”

The moment the words had left her mouth she immediately experienced a surge of self-loathing for so easily taking on the demeanor of a whipped dog.

They returned to the village and the walk in the crisp morning air did Vero some good in revitalizing her. Although she hoped she would not incur any brazen comments from the villagers. At that moment, she felt her temperament was hot enough to kill. The sounds of weeping reached them well before they entered the village proper.

Despite the impiety of the act, Vero watched a smile creep across her master’s face. “It seems someone pays the price of their fool alderman’s arrogance.”

On a normal morning, Vero could never match her master’s callousness. The old man had chided her for an overabundance of empathy on more than one occasion. But on that particular morning, she found herself in possession of an overabundance of scorn. It was welcome to shift it onto the convenient target the village provided.

She smiled back at her master. Her blood quickened, both at the misfortune of the fools who had humiliated them, and the prospect of a coming hunt.

Smiles vanished and they entered the village. A crowd gathered around the bare space in front of the elder’s residence. There were few enough people present, though given the number of huts she saw; Vero estimated that it must have been the majority of the village’s population.

The alderman Phillipe considered them as they came closer, and his look was no more welcoming than the one they had received the previous day. He stood on the front step of his home. Before him, stretched on the ground, was the form of a boy of about eleven or twelve. He was the youngest lad on the church steps the previous day, although he had not said anything and Vero hardly noted him at the time.

Over the body was a woman, prostrate in tears. Looking at her, Vero saw her own Mama’s image appear before her. She felt a sharp pang of shame at taking satisfaction from their tragedy.

Her master stepped forward and carefully peeled the mother away from her son’s corpse. The woman watched him, but did not resist. No one in the village said a thing as the Slayer examined the boy.

Vero already knew what had happened to the lad. It was obvious to the trained eye even at a distance, and what they already knew about the monster only confirmed it. Still, her master told her frequently that a bit of showmanship in front of the uninitiated could be a profitable use of time. The fact that the villagers could not determine the cause of death on their own would mean nothing to them. They would value the Slayer’s work only if they believed it had been difficult to accomplish.

The boy’s neck had been mauled by powerful jaws, his chest had been opened, and his entrails roughly pulled free with monstrous claws. The neck bite was the killing blow; it happened quickly. That much had been merciful. The other wounds were the result of the killer hunting for the choicest meats. Several organs were gone, the boy’s liver and heart would never be found; they were already in the thing’s belly. Most of the body was still intact though. The killing had been driven by a pathological need, not a desire for food.

“This was the work of a loup garou.” Her master declared authoritatively once he felt enough time had passed to impress the peasants. “It is a curse levied in the name of Luna the Matron, that under the moon's full gaze an unrepentant blasphemer loses all reason and takes on a horrible bestial shape.”

A murmur ran through the crowd and not a few eyes drifted towards the abandoned temple. Her master did not acknowledge what must have gone through everyone’s minds, and pressed forward.

“There have been attacks like this in the past?”

He directed this question at the mother, who nodded in response.

“Three killings in this area, one month ago?”

The mother nodded again.

Her master bowed his head solemnly. “You have my utmost sympathy for your son. Two others will die- perhaps more. And this will continue every month until the village is gone or this monster is destroyed.”

All eyes then shifted towards the village alderman, who in turn focused intently on Vero and her master. He tried to project a mood of calm contemplation, yet for the space of an instant, Vero saw a look of absolute fury directed squarely at the two of them. Phillipe already knew he was caught. Although he was the one giving the announcement, and making a show of his internal deliberations, the mob had already ruled.

At last, when the alderman had spent enough time conducting his own bout of showmanship, he stood up straight before his neighbors and spoke very seriously. “We among us in this village have no warriors or hunters with the skill to meet this threat. You are a trained slayer of monsters. We offer you the bounty of our village, will you hunt this creature?”

The Slayer smiled again.

 

Once they were away from the village, and far enough from prying eyes, Vero and her master began their preparations.

The full moon was the aspect of Luna the Mother; healer and forgiver. Her influence would close any wound struck to the creature by an unconsecrated weapon. The Slayer’s blade bore ancient enchantments and would serve. As a mere apprentice, all Vero had was the dagger she took from her brother when she left home. It was plain iron and bore the marks of her negligent maintenance as a younger novice.

Her master gave her his small crossbow. Using the little coin in their purse, they had procured a handful of silver bolt heads more than a year ago. Although only three of them still remained.

He believed that the monster laired in the forest. It was the cruelest twist of this curse that it was only under the sign of Luna’s all-forgiving aspect that the loup garou was driven utterly mad. Early in the evening, the man would be haunted by delusions and driven to seek shelter beneath the canopy of leaves in shame, to hide from Luna’s gaze.

When the moon was at its highest point, the curse would possess the creature to compulsively seek some transgression to put it forever beyond Mother Luna’s love. The result was a killing madness. However, as Mother Luna's love was boundless, the cycle of death could only repeat each month until the wrath of the Matron had somehow been sated.

They spent the rest of the morning trying to familiarize themselves with the terrain as much as possible with the time they had. Vero spotted a rabbit on their trek and brought it down with the crossbow, so at least she knew her aim was still good. They roasted the rabbit for their midday meal and rested after. The hunt could go on the whole night and exhaustion would prove deadly.

That evening, just before the sun set, her master began the final arcane preparations for the night’s hunt. He removed his boots and held out his palm, moving his fingers rapidly in a complex set of motions. He sliced his hand with his blade, intoning a slayer working of concealment and stealth as he did so. Once he was finished, he spread the blood spilled over the soles of his shoes.

“Hold out your hand.”

Vero did as she was told and cast the same working. She recited the same words, and performed the same motions. Her master nodded in reply, which was as close as he ever came to praise, and cut open her hand to finish the spell.

“How long since you’ve last had your woman’s blood?”

Surely, he should have remembered. It came under the new moon for her, as it always did.

Vero pushed down her indignation. “A fortnight, master.”

“It should still be viable then. Get out your rag.”

Vero did as she was bid. From her pack she removed a glass vial with a stopper containing a bit of old rags stained with dry blood. She had puzzled at why her master insisted that she keep such a thing. If she even touched him in that condition, he became apoplectic about needing to ritually purify himself from the defilement.

He never allowed her to cast any spells in his presence while she bled, warning of the direst of consequences for working magic while her humors were unbalanced. On her own, Vero had performed some minor workings. As yet, she had faced no repercussions. Mama had even taught her several prayers to recite over an herbal concoction when she had very painful cramps as a girl, and they seemed to function perfectly well.

Her master continued. “Now, this is the first loup garou you’ve hunted. So, pay close attention, girl.”

Vero sat on the ground and looked up at her teacher, imagining herself to be in one of the great slayer academies of old while she listened to him lecture.

“It's commonly known that such beasts hunt during the full of the moon and fear silver. Peasants claim that they fear wolf’s bane. In fact, it proves effective in only a limited number of instances, similar to a vampyre’s fear of garlic.”

He paused to give Vero the chance to elaborate and demonstrate her knowledge. “It holds no true power, save for the power of suggestion. If the monster was told as a human that it repels such creatures, and believes it, then they flee. The same principle applies as the charlatan’s false miracle: if a petitioner is sold a false relic as a cure by a swindler, his mind may cause his body to react in order to match his beliefs.”

The Slayer gave another nod to indicate that the recitation was satisfactory. According to him, the old academies had given written examinations and considered essay writing a vital skill. As her teacher was illiterate, he had to settle for testing her orally. It was just as well, since Vero’s own grasp of her letters was tenuous at best.

“Peasants also claim that such a creature’s bite is infectious. This is a confusion caused by the fact that – because of their curse born regenerative abilities – loup garou become carriers of many diseases which fail to sicken or debilitate them, but may be passed through a bite. The foremost of these diseases being rabies. Such a victim may sicken, but such a bite will never transform you into a moon beast; although some who are bitten and recover do become ravening lunatics.”

“Based on the same false miracle principle, because they expect to become a monster.”

Another nod. “The moon exerts a strange influence over the minds of mortals. The full moon draws out lunatics as well as lycanthropes. Avoid being bitten, and if you are- then clean and purify the wound the moment the battle is over. The true curse originates from the Queen Luna herself… either by a genuine divine intervention-” The Slayer smirked at the notion. “Or by calling on her emanations through a mortal’s spell-working. Because the curse of a loup garou and the curse of a woman’s bleeding emanate from the same source, the moon, there is a sympathetic connection between them.”

“So, a working designed for tracking, cast using my blood will lead us to the monster?”

The final nod. “I cannot leave myself ritually impure directly before a hunt. I'll teach the proper words and signs to you, and you'll weave the spell yourself.”

The Slayer did exactly as he claimed. Vero learned the prayers in Liturgical to call down the power of Luna the Matron by rote, she understood their meaning only through paraphrasing. It was a call for vengeance and an appeal to spite. The movements were more familiar to her, they resembled other divining rituals for tracking prey she had performed. They included both gestures and breathing patterns.

When they were finished, Vero threw her rag on their campfire with a handful of mimosa as a burnt offering.

Blood was the universal reagent, thick with azoth, it carried life energy itself throughout the body. Blood could be used to plaster over almost any flaws in a spell, if one spilled enough of it. Slayers never had the luxury to operate in the laboratory conditions most university-trained wizards worked in. All slayer workings presumed deficits in technical spellcraft would be paid for with blood sacrifice. Using the substance held little trepidation for her anymore. Although Vero was still not happy to stand over the stained rag while it burned on a fire, inhaling the fumes while chanting and performing the signs.

For his part, once his instructions were given, Vero’s teacher remained as far away from the proceedings as he could manage. He held his cloak over his mouth and nose for fear of contamination. Once the fire was well and truly out, he approached her cautiously.

“How do you feel?”

“A little sick from the smoke.” Vero coughed, expelling a bit of the burning from her lungs.

“Yes, yes, of course. But can you sense anything? Where is the beast?”

Vero examined herself mentally and physically. Even though she knew it would make her master cross if she had bungled the ritual, she could find no change- besides the mundane effects of smoke inhalation.

“What should it feel like master?”

“You inhaled the smoke; it should affect you there first. Try smelling for the creature.”

Vero sniffed at the wind. At first there was nothing. And then there was something. Just on the edge of sensation; a smell like animal musk.

“I know the way.”