Chapter Text
Sunday, 8th March 1959
Hawkins, Indiana
Dark Moon in Pisces
You stand at a crossroads, mist surrounding you; close your eyes and let your heart guide you on your path.
Wayne shifted restlessly on the doorstep, the handle of the physician’s bag creaking in his grip. Though he kept his gaze on the stained glass rose set in the door, he really watched his Aunt Brigitte. Her auburn hair was threaded with grey, her hands rough from use. He’d only met her three days ago but he could read the irritation on her face. The sun was setting and they’d been standing on this here step for five minutes already.
Indiana was colder than than Wayne expected. He was no stranger to the cold, growing up at the foot of the Appalachians in Tennessee for the whole fifteen years of his life. The wind that cut through his flannel and jacket was icy and sharp, its touch lingering in an unnatural way.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Aunt Brigitte muttered, green eyes flinty. She rapped sharply on the door and shouted, “I’ll not be left waitin’ on your pleasure, Victor Creel! Quit acting the maggot and let an old woman in.” Wayne started at her forwardness. His father had never addressed Alpha Bennett in such a way. She continued to grumble curses under her breath.
Despite her words, Aunt Brigitte wasn’t even forty yet. Young Brigitte O’Sullivan had been a combat nurse in the war, treating soldiers on the front lines in France. She met Creel there, it was said, and saved his life with naught but a fistful of yarrow and a psalm. He was already a werewolf then, part of an elite team of supernatural creatures that conducted secret operations. His team even had its own Emissary, one John Munson. She’d fallen in love among the mud and blood and gunfire, marrying him in the aftermath of the battle of Normandy. She returned with him to the States and John once again took up his post in the little town of Hawkins, Indiana.
Hawkins was something of a haven for the supernatural, being at the intersection of several ley lines. It even had a Nemeton, an ancient oak tree that stood as a centre of power. It was sacred to druids like the Munsons, and had the protection of humans and supers alike.
In 1950, tuberculosis swept through Hawkins, carrying many a citizen off. Including Brigitte’s husband. “Losin’ John broke her heart,” Ma had said. “She vowed to never love again. With no children and no apprentice, there’s none to take up her mantle when her time comes. That’s why ya gotta get to Hawkins, Wayne. Brigitte ain’t gonna be the Emissary forever.”
So here Wayne was, a wide-eyed teenager on the doorstep of an Alpha he’d never met, next to an aunt he hardly knew.
The door was wrenched open to reveal a man in his early forties, hair wild and clothes askew. He looked out of place in the fine house. “Your exorcism failed, woman. I’ll treat with you as I please.”
Aunt Brigitte scoffed and pushed past him into the house, Wayne following with his eyes on the polished wood floors.
“Who’s this?” the man demanded.
“Me nephew and apprentice, Wayne. Wayne, this is Mr. Creel.”
Wayne raised his chin to show his throat. “Pleased to meet ya, Alpha Creel.”
Creel growled low in his chest and his eyes flashed— sapphire? He pointed an accusing finger at Aunt Brigitte and grit out, “You’ll do your job right, witch, or I’ll—”
“It’s Emissary Munson to ye, Mister Creel. You know full well what I am and am not, and I’m no witch. I’m a druid and the daughter of a long line of cunning folk and my oath is to keep the balance. I don’t answer to ye.”
He snarled at her and she didn’t so much as flinch. He then shouted, “Virginia!” and stormed off. A few seconds later, a door slammed deeper in the house. Wayne jumped, shame burning inside him. A gentle hand squeezed his shoulder and he looked at his aunt from under his lashes.
“Chin up, lad. Ya did fine. I should’a warned you.”
“Don’t fret, Apprentice,” a high, clear voice came from somewhere above them. Wayne looked up to see a stately blonde woman standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a powder blue dress and a cream sweater. Her eyes glowed scarlet. “Pay my husband no mind. He’s been under a lot of strain, lately.”
“Alpha,” Aunt Brigitte greeted, raising her chin.
Virginia Creel glided down the stairs and swept up one of Brigitte’s hands in both of hers. In the warm light of the wall sconce her eyes were a rich, dark brown. “Emissary. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Ah, g’way outta that, Ginger. What needs doing?”
Alpha Creel sighed and dropped Brigitte’s hand, taking a step back towards the stairs. “It’s Henry. I need to know if he will survive the Bite.”
Wayne’s aunt was visibly startled. “You said you wanted to wait until he was sixteen.”
The Alpha sighed and nodded before beckoning them to follow as she ascended the stairs. “Alice shifted for the first time last full moon.”
Brigitte nodded, not surprised in the least. She would’ve helped with the celebrations.
“Henry didn’t take it well. He’s been begging me for the Bite from the moment the full moon set. I daresay he’s become obsessed with the idea.”
“Your son’s human?” Wayne blurted, then reddened as both women shifted their attention to him.
“It happens sometimes,” Mrs. Creel explained evenly, “the child of a bitten wolf and a born wolf has a small, but not insignificant, chance of being born human. Unfortunately, about half of such children won’t survive the Bite. I don’t like those odds, Brigitte.”
Setting her jaw in determination, Aunt Brigitte nodded. “Aye. Let’s shorten them.”
Henry Creel was only a little younger than Wayne with blond hair and a solemn face. There was a coldness in his blue eyes that unnerved Wayne. Introductions were brief, and the boy quickly became animated when he found out what the visit was for. He eagerly offered up a few drops of his blood for the ritual, watching it well from his thumb with fascination.
Wayne anticipated his aunt’s needs, producing from the bag a small mortar and pestle, and jars of wormwood, mugwort, eyebright and bay laurel leaves. Brigitte took the mugwort and wormwood without comment, but lingered on the eyebright before giving Wayne a small nod and a smile. “And the belladonna,” she reminded him softly. Though he was surprised, Wayne didn't question her, retrieving the tincture of bittersweet nightshade. The spell was for a werewolf, an Alpha no less. Mrs. Creel would have no fear of that poison. Brigitte ground the three herbs into a powder, then mixed in the blood and belladonna to make a paste. She scraped out the mixture and spread it on one of the bay leaves before whispering something in Gaelic over it. The paste dried instantly.
Next, Wayne took out a tin bowl and a book of matches while Brigitte told the Alpha to get a damp towel. When she returned, Wayne passed her the bowl, leaf and matches. Brigitte instructed, “Put the towel over your head and light the leaf in the bowl underneath. Once it has finished burning and you’ve inhaled the smoke, lower the towel, open your eyes and look directly at Henry. Then, you will sense the truth.”
Wayne held his breath as Mrs. Creel obeyed without question, the crackling of the burning leaf audible even from across the room. When she lowered the towel and laid her ruddy gaze upon her son, her face drained of colour. She clapped her hands over her ears and gasped, squinting as though trying to peer through a bright light. Henry was frozen, looking at his mother in horror.
She stayed like that, trembling, for several seconds. At last she dropped her hands to her sides and stared vacantly, tears shining on her cheeks.
“Virginia?” Brigitte prompted gently. When she got no response, she said, “Ginger?”
Mrs. Creel swallowed and gave a slight nod.
“What did you see, love?”
“I—” she rasped, then cleared her throat and tried again, “I didn’t. See. I didn’t see anything. I heard…” Mahogany eyes settled on Henry. She frowned slightly. “I heard a scream. A terrible scream. I felt it tear through me like claws. I’ve never… never heard anything like it.”
Wayne felt a chill. There was only one thing that made a sound like that.
“Banshee,” Brigitte said. Mrs. Creel’s attention snapped to her. “You heard the scream of a banshee, a harbinger of death. I’m sorry. Henry won’t survive the Bite.”
“No!” Henry shouted. “No, you’re lying!”
“Henry—” Mrs. Creel pleaded, devastation etched across her face.
“LIAR!” the boy was red in the face, leaping to his feet with his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you— you witch!”
“Time to go,” Aunt Brigitte told Wayne in an undertone, sweeping her things back into the bag carelessly. Wayne nodded and hurried to do up the clasp.
The Alpha was on her feet, too, arms outstretched towards Henry. “Calm yourself! You knew this could happen!”
The Munsons fled the room, door slamming shut in their wake. The girl, Alice, peered at them from her doorway, nightgown rumpled and blonde hair awry. Her eyes burned a bright, fierce gold. Brigitte tugged Wayne by the arm down the stairs and out the front door, shouts echoing from the room above.
As they drove away in Brigitte’s little green car, hearts pounding, Wayne couldn’t help but imagine himself in twenty years standing as Emissary to Alice, heir to the Alpha spark. Somehow, the vision didn’t feel real. Was that his inexperience talking? Or was he not meant to walk this path?
“You did well, lad. I’m proud of you,” Aunt Brigitte said, glancing away from the road for a heartbeat. The grand Victorian house was already obscured by trees.
“What’s gonna happen to him?” he asked.
“He’ll grieve, then he’ll get over it. The humans make the Pack just as much as the wolves. The boy just needs time.”
Wayne settled into his seat, loosening his grip on the physician’s bag. She made it sound so easy. Maybe it would be.
He was wrong.
Tuesday, 24th March 1959
Lunar Eclipse in Libra
A bolt of lightning will strike your community – are you ready to weather it?
Wayne couldn’t take his eyes off the blood.
The dining table was in disarray, the tablecloth yanked askew and stained with the remnants of the Creels’ last meal. The crimson pools where Virginia’s eyes had bled still shone wetly. Wayne couldn’t imagine the amount of damage that would be needed to take down an Alpha in the prime of her life.
Whatever had attacked had done so during the lunar eclipse, when the wolves were powerless. Wayne didn’t think that was a coincidence. Still, Mrs. Creel had been well-trained, more than capable of defending herself even with all the limitations of being, for all intents and purposes, human. But there was no evidence of her fighting back, not to protect herself or her children. The eclipse couldn’t do that.
Aunt Brigitte’s demeanour was stony and detached, but Wayne could see her hands shake as they hovered above the pool of blood where Alice had fallen. Even Wayne, whose talent lay in plants, healing and communing with the land, could feel the darkness that pervaded this place. It was more than the simple lack of balance he felt last week, when he and Brigitte had spent three days performing a thorough exorcism on the house and surrounding property. The room’s energy was cold and hostile, and it echoed with rage and hatred.
Sheriff Phillips hung back by the door, hat in his hands, face pale and eyes full of fear. “I served with Victor a time or two. I don’t care to know what he’s about, but I tell ya, I don’t know how he coulda done this. There were no bite or claw marks, save for the eyes. They were all twisted up, like, all their bones broken. But I swear on my mother’s grave, there were no signs of where he laid hands on them. It was like they’d been snapped from the inside.” He swallowed, fingertips running along the brim of his hat back and forth. “Victor, he— he kept screamin’ that a demon had done it.”
“No demon did this,” Brigitte said sharply. Until this moment, Wayne would have agreed. They conducted every test imaginable, used every divination method they knew, to find what manner of spirit or being could be tormenting the Creels. Wayne had gone through every entry in the family bestiary and found nothing that fit. An unsettled spirit could go as far as slamming doors or knocking things off shelves, but it wouldn’t kill animals. An Anuk-ite could generate fear and make spiders behave strangely, but they affected whole communities, not a single household. A trickster could torment people with nightmares, but they were easily identified and let folks know how to appease them. And none of those things killed by snapping bones and piercing eyes. So what had done this, if not a demon?
“Demons leave signatures,” Brigitte continued, moving to examine the blood on the table, “and they follow rules. The defenses I put up are still intact and none of the wards have tripped. Whatever did this… it’s something new. Or something very, very old.”
Footsteps heralded the arrival of the deputy as he ran into the house. He caught himself on the doorframe, hair dripping sweat into his eyes. “Sheriff, sir!”
“At ease, Jenkins. What news?” Phillips said, turning his back on the scene.
Jenkins caught sight of Aunt Brigitte as she came into view beside Wayne, and he gave her a nod, “Ma’am. Sir, we just got word from the hospital. The Creel boy is dead.” Wayne’s heart dropped into his stomach. All three, dead?
Phillips cursed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Goddamn it. Alright, head back to the station and—”
“I need to speak to Victor,” Brigitte announced. Wayne felt a thrill of fear. Werewolves, even hostile ones, he could handle. Murderers? Not so much.
Phillips turned to look at her, searching her face. She glared back, all determination. He sighed. “Take the lady to the station. She gets five minutes with the prisoner. That’s all, ya hear?” This last was directed at her.
“I only need two,” she replied.
After instructing the deputy to allow Wayne to accompany her (“Where I go, he goes,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument), him and Aunt Brigitte were taken to the sheriff’s station by squad car. They were taken to the holding cells without complaint, though many uneasy deputies watched them walk through the station with trepidation.
Victor Creel sat on a wooden bench in the cell in the darkest corner, staring sightlessly at the ground. His claws could cut through the steel cell bars like a hot knife through butter if he wanted to. Though Wayne’s legs shook something awful, he stuck to Aunt Brigitte’s side as she stepped up to the bars just out of arm’s reach.
“Show me your eyes, Victor,” she demanded without preamble.
He didn’t respond. His clothes were stained with blood, his hands almost entirely red. Wayne felt sick, but held his ground.
“Victor Creel, you will show me your eyes right now or so help me—”
“My family is dead, Emissary,” Creel said, voice shaking, “your threats are empty.”
“Ye underestimate me. After all these years, you still don’t know who you’re dealin’ with.” Brigitte raised her hands above her head and a cold wind began to blow. “Victor Ezekiel Creel,” she commanded in a voice like thunder, “I, as Emissary and Protector of the Creel Pack, as Keeper of the Balance and Warden of the Night, do compel you to reveal to me your true eyes!”
Immediately, his eyes snapped to hers and began to glow a bloody crimson. “I never laid a hand on her!” he cried and leapt to his feet. He surged towards them, catching himself on the bars. “She lifted into the air as if pulled by strings! An invisible hand twisted and broke her body, and I could do nothing! I didn’t steal her power, as I was powerless. You must believe me, Brigitte!”
Her hands had dropped to her sides and angry tears burned in her eyes. “You were supposed to protect them, Victor. You swore vows.” She took a deep breath, composing herself. “I hope you enjoy Pennhurst, Mr. Creel. It will be your last respite before Hell.”
She turned and left without looking back. Wayne followed, but lingered in the doorway. “Why?” he asked softly, knowing that the wolf would hear. “Why should we believe you?”
Creel blinked and his eyes dimmed to their pale, human blue. Tear tracks shone on his cheeks in the moonlight. “I’m telling the truth, Apprentice. If I had done it, wouldn’t I tell a more believable tale?”
Wayne watched him for a long while. “I think…” he said slowly, “that your soul is tellin’ us what your tongue won’t.”
With that, he left. He didn’t know it yet, but Victor Creel was the last werewolf he would see alive for the next twenty-four years.