French Connection

Allen sat at the end of the bar in the French tavern. He had kept his slicker on when he entered and it had dripped a little puddle of water on the floor beneath his stool. His hat was on the bar in front of him, next to his drink, what the French call whiskey; Tasted like paint thinner. It was raining outside; it seemed to rain a lot here. The owner of the tavern was shifting around from table to table checking on his guests; Allen kept tabs on him by using the mirror behind the bar. The owner’s wife minded the bar and flirted with most of the men who came in. she had tried to flirt with Allen, he wasn’t interested. Above the bar was a television reporting the news. As day became night more people arrived at the tavern. No one seemed to notice when September came in. he took the seat next to Allen and ordered some wine using perfect French.

“We can buy the boat but without the Navy’s permission we can’t sail to England.”

“Then Parliament needs to hurry up and give us approval. We have about two days left.” Allen felt the trouble before he saw the man come running into the tavern. He was screaming historically and his right arm was covered in blood. The Tavern owner rushed forward with a few of the men and tried to calm him down. The only French words Allen recognized were the bad ones. The owner and his friends seemed to calm the man down and began to clean the wounds on his arm. Allen looked at September questioningly.

“He was attacked by dogs.” September replied. “Probably wild dogs, maybe even wolves.”

“Wolf is your brother isn’t he? Why are there wolves all over the world but not coyotes?”

“Wolf is more ambitious then I am. He traveled the world leaving children everywhere he went. He likes a good legacy.”

“Do the wolves listen to you?”

“Sometimes, but if wolves did this, I doubt they are listeners.”

Allen noticed that the owner’s wife behind the bar was growing increasingly nervous. She was clutching a bar towel and twisting it between her hands. Allen asked September to talk to here. September called out to her for another drink, when she approached he quietly asked her what was wrong. She began an explanation, quietly at first but as she continued her voice became louder and faster. All of a sudden her husband was there scolding her, and sent her to the other end of the bar. “I am sorry for my wife sirs,” he spoke in his best English, “living this close to the channel has caused many people to become superstitious, especially the women. Many people have claimed strange instances lately but the stories become greater and more fantastic every time one wife tells another.”

“What happened to your friend?” Allen asked.

“He is not my friend sir, he is the town drunk, and my best customer you could say. He probably fell into some ones yard and got attacked by their dog. It has happened before. Please do not worry about him he will be fine.” The owner shifted off again, this time to help carry the wounded man into a back room. Once he was gone Allen asked September what the wife had been trying to tell them.

“She was saying that there had been quite a few dog attacks in this park of the country lately. It is said that there is a large pack of dogs or possibly wolves roaming Northern France. There are strange stories told where ever they are sited. She is afraid of lycanthropes.”

“What are lycanthropes?”

“Werewolves of course.”

“What are werewolves?” September looked at Allen disappointingly.

“What do you mean what are werewolves? Everyone knows what werewolves are.”

“Is there an Indian word for it; is it like a skin walker?”

“No, there is no Indian word for it. It’s a werewolf. Didn’t you ever watch any movies growing up?” that’s when September remembered who he was talking to. “Oh yea, you spent all your time outdoors with your cows. Well I’m not going to tell you what it is, because if it turns out to be one I don’t want to ruin it for you.” That put Allen in a bad mood. He had too much to think about as it was without trying to find out what a werewolf is, much less how to stop one. He was so busy brooding that he almost didn’t notice when the three police officers came through the tavern straight to the back room.

Not long after that Allen got a very bad feeling. Something bad was going to happen in that back room. Allen had developed a Trouble sense through his training with September; he always seemed to know when bad news was coming or when things would go from bad to worse. This made him annoyed more than anything else; it was quite a mood killer. “Let’s take that table over there and get some dinner.” Allen indicated a table in the corner a few feet away from the door the police had entered. They moved and September ordered something off the menu that Allen couldn’t read. “Is it ok to shoot a werewolf?” asked Allen one the Owners wife had left to get their food.

“It’s a universally excepted habit, shooting werewolves.”

“Good.” Replied Allen and he unbuttoned his coat for the first time that night and let his hand fall to the gun he wore on his belt. He only had a minute before the trouble he felt would be upon them. That pissed him off. Almost exactly a minute later there came a commotion from the back room. At first it sounded like they were moving the furniture around, but then the screaming began, and then the roar. A few of the patrons at the Tavern got up and began to run towards the door, but Allen stepped in their way. He threw back his coat and drew his gun sending the patrons a few steps back, but the gun was not for them. Allen turned quickly and dashed into the back room before anyone could follow him. There were three gunshots, a crash, a scream, and then Allen came flying back threw the doorway crashing into a table. He pulled himself just in time to see the werewolf come through the door. This half man half wolf monster hit harder then Allen wanted to admit, and bullets didn’t seem to have done much to improve the beast’s mood.

The werewolf leapt at Allen, giving him just enough time to curse and throw his arms up to block the blow. The monster caught Allen’s left arm in its jaws as it landed on top of him bringing him back down to the floor. Allen kicked at the beast from beneath it, landing what he thought were some really good blows but the werewolf seemed unaffected. All of a sudden the owner’s wife threw a pair of candle sticks at the monster from behind the bar, Allen who appreciated the effort was sure that the woman had just sealed her doom, but to his surprise the candles stick knocked the beast off of Allen and they really seemed to hurt him. The werewolf looked confused for a moment but then took off for the front door and as fast as it had come it was gone.

Allen once again pulled himself up from the floor and began to dust himself off. He then walked back to the back room to retrieve his gun, giving September a dirty look as he passed. When he came out it was with the tavern owner and the three policemen. They had all been torn up badly and were in need of some serious medical attention. September informed him that an ambulance had already been called for. “Did that thing bite you?” he asked curiously looking at the blood coming from Allen’s left arm.

“Yea.” Allen answered angrily; he had that feeling that bad news was coming.

“You see,” September started out, “that’s how the curse is transmitted, I’m pretty sure you have it now, and so do they.” He indicated the wounded men Allen had dragged out of the back room.

“You gonna tell me how to get rid of this dang curse them?” Allen spat out.

“Oh you’ll like this; you have to kill the one that bit you.” Allen did like that. He picked up one of the candle sticks and held it up for September to see. “It’s the silver not the candlestick itself.”

“Good, I’m going up to my room to put on a shirt without a hole in the sleeve and get my rifle, when I get back I want something I can use.” Allen slammed the candlestick on the table in front of September and went upstairs. When he came back down there were 5 silver bullets and a small silver knife, but no candlestick. One of the perks of traveling with a god Allen thought, even if he was a mischievous lazy one.

“Allen,” September called out as he headed for the door, “I’m pretty sure you only have about 3 hours before you… you know.” Allen nodded his head as he went out the door. He was back in two with the body of the town drunk. He was covered in mud and blood and had ruined another shirt.

Allen stood in front of September with his arms held out to the sides. “Well, am I curse free? Did it work?” September said that it had. “Did anything else happen while I was out?” September held up an envelope and Allen took it. Inside was a declaration from the parliament allowing Allen to cross the Channel. “Grab our stuff out of the room we’re going.”

“Don’t you want to rest up and change?”

“I can change on the boat; I really want to get out of here.”