Thursday, November 10
Around 22:15
Post-Moonrise

The full moon gleamed over the streets of Camden, but the storefronts were so bright with the strange, colorful electric Muggle lights that most of the passerby barely seemed to notice.  The streets had become busier now as groups of Muggles strolled from bar to bar, talking and laughing, the evening’s revelry and libations adding volume to their chatter.

The silver links of his chainmail rippled silently as Kurby shifted position, his dark gaze scanning the crowd.  He’d taken up position at the edge of an alleyway, leaning back against the wall at the side of a shuttered storefront.  He’d gotten a few strange looks from some of the Muggles wandering by, but most of them seemed content to ignore him.

This particular posting had been a late addition to the Werewolf Capture Unit’s assignments for the night.  They were still keeping a full team stationed up outside of Edinburgh, even though last month’s full moon hadn’t revealed hide or hair of the supposed direwolf[1] that had ravaged a former Azkaban inmate back in September.  The other unit members were scattered in the usual places: largely Hogsmeade and Diagon, just in case a flea-ravaged mongrel got any bright ideas. 

But earlier that evening, just as the moon was rising, word had come in of a monstrously large dog spotted romping down the street somewhere north of Regent’s Park.  The report wasn’t exactly what he’d consider reliable – Kurby suspected that the wizard who’d made it probably hadn’t been sober since the last full moon – but at the very least, it had given him a chance to give himself an assignment.  He’d grabbed Li and Harris, one of the newer Muggleborn recruits, and brought them along with them to scout the busy area near the Camden Lock.

His choice of teammates had very quickly proven to be a mistake.  Harris never really shut up, and he’d apparently decided to redirect all of the effort that he should have been putting towards watching for lycanthropes into trying to talk Li’s ear off, in some sort of mistaken attempt at instigating a courtship.  Kurby had suffered through the chatter for all of three minutes before he’d snapped and brusquely ordered them to find somewhere else to keep watch.

Which had left him here, all alone – not an undesirable situation, all things considered.  The sharp chill of the air cut through his leather and silver, making his hair stand on end.  Even with all the Muggles streaming by, he’d largely been left alone.  There was nothing to do but watch and listen and wait, in anticipation of a hunt.

He sensed more than saw the dark-colored silhouette that cut towards him.  Kurby’s gaze flicked over to the approaching figure briefly.  Human-shaped – not a wolf, so not a threat on a brightly-lit night like tonight.  He didn’t feel like having a conversation with a Muggle, any more than he felt like dealing with any more flying books or drama with Gen.  In some twisted way, the full moon was his night off from dealing with nonsense that shouldn’t matter. 

“This way’s closed,” he said curtly, attention shifting back to the crowd again.  “Find another.”

1.	September 12 – Bad Moon Rising

"Mmm, you think, uh..." The nasal grumble was gravel and glass.

"Mr. Werewolf is a traffic cop now, good for you." His words were long and drawn out, like he had all the time in the world; he hit all his r's hard. "Thank you for your service."

Lazarus Blackburn posted up against the other side of the alley and tipped his hat back further on his head, then put his hands under his arms. A full moon to a vampire was like a sunny day. Whether the citizens of London noticed, muggle or magical-wise, the pale bare face of the moon did strange things. A little more merry, a little more reckless, a little less perceptive.

And there was, of course, that other thing.

The thing that drew out the Ministry of Magic's spooks, like this fellow. Lazarus had no personal quarrel with the Ministry of Magic; in fact, they hadn't had cause to do dealings in decades. He wrote his name in their book disappeared into the city and into the fold of Terrence Hooker. The coven functioned as a convenient distribution of Approved Sustenance, and they even had their own lovely liaison in Tristian Vaillencourt.

How the vampires had gotten lucky with the Ministry of Magic, Lazarus couldn't imagine. There were no Vampire Hunters employed there, certainly. No, that profession was strictly freelance in this country. But no such luck for werewolves. But then, there wasn't anything lucky about being a werewolf. What a sad way to spend living, never enjoying a full moon.

The angle of the light cut a slice of shadow across Lazarus's face, a crooked and pleasant little smile showing off his kind's particular bite.

"Catch any ... jaywalkers ... yet?" said Lazarus with a grunt of a laugh.

The werewolf hunter's eyebrows shot up, and he aimed a sharp look at the figure across the alley.  Not a Muggle, then.  But the wizard seemed a little too still, a little too relaxed to be out and about on Muggle streets in the middle of a full moon.  And then there was that flash of a sharp-toothed smile...

Brows raising, Kurby paused, regarding the creature more warily.  They couldn't help but announce what they were, vampires. 

They were a different sort of monster than a werewolf.  Where lycanthropes were most notable for the gratuitous loss of humanity that came with each full moon, vampires took great pride in their self-control.  They seemed to revel in their other-ness, to celebrate the loss of humanity that set them apart from the beating hearts around them. Unlike werewolves, they didn't need to lap down wolfsbane all month long to keep themselves docile.  The sharp-toothed creatures were coolly sentient, more than capable of making decisions about what was right and what was wrong, even if moral values held no real sway over their reasoning.

But that self-control didn't mean they weren't dangerous.  Far from it. 

Kurby gave a snort.  "Aye, got 'em all tussed up around the corner," he said gruffly.  What the hell was a J. Walker?  Some sort of blood-sucker slang for a werewolf?  How the bleeding hell was he supposed to know what that stupid initial stood for?

Rolling his shoulders back, he checked instinctively for the silver chain at his belt, his wand in its holster.  Everything was in its proper place, and Kurby relaxed, even if only slightly.  If the gravely-voiced vampire had come to try its luck at taking down a wizard, then at least he'd get to take part in a different sort of night rumble than usual.

"Busy part of town to pick for an evening stroll," he remarked, raising his eyebrows at the vampire.  "You out lookin' for a snack in particular, or just tryin' to work up an appetite?"

Lazarus stood up from leaning and placed his hand on his chest.

"I'm wounded," he said with gently mocking hurt. Lazarus was a peaceful creature and came by blood in the recommended mode. Such was the promise that kept him in good stead all around town. Certainly the nature of his being meant every pumping heart was beating for him, but there were things more important than indulgence. Such as inspiring a mortal mob. No, the werewolf hunter was right - the bright streets of the city would be a risky choice.

The wizard stood like a well-armed man. Confident in his preparations. The concern of what might comforted by the knowledge of what he would. Lazarus knew that trick, too.

Slowly, humming something too quiet to identify, Lazarus scraped his feet on the ground as he paced a little way back into the alley.

"So, did you get our tip?" he asked. "Mmm, maybe not. Tolly's[1] best quality isn't accuracy."

The lack of urgency that colored everything about Lazarus extended even to a might-be werewolf loose in London and related acts of good citizenship.

1.	Mr. Toliver Furrow - known drunk and spotter of large dogs...

The vampire followed up its little one-act drama by stepping back into the darkness of the alley. Like the curtains rolling across the stage after the end of a performance, the shadows folded around it, welcoming the creature into their embrace.   Standing so close to it, alone in the darkness despite the thronging street nearby, made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

But despite what his instincts might be telling him, the creature didn't seem to have come to threaten him.  It didn't even seem particularly interested in trading snipes.  Kurby paused, considering his options.

Unlike the werewolves, who had fallen in line behind Fenrir Greyback without so much as a whimper and used the last war to wreak death and dismemberment upon wixes and Muggles alike, the vampire covens of the United Kingdom had never really rallied to Voldemort's side.  For the most part, they didn't intentionally try to evade Ministry regulations, they didn't lie to themselves,  and they didn't spend half their time whining about how they couldn't help their beastly nature.  He'd heard stories about deadly covens and vampire massacres in Eastern Europe, but those sorts of events rarely happened here.  With St. Mungo's blood banks replenished,[1], the chance of an incident anywhere near London seemed diminished.

The werewolf hunter stayed silent for a moment longer, mouth pressed shut, and then gave a mental shrug.  Li and Harris were close enough to be summoned by Patronus if it came to that.  If this vampire had come to toy with him or lure him into some sort of ambush, he'd take the risk.

"Remind me," he said, straightening. The stumbling wizard who had come to report the potential sighting hadn't struck him as the sort to spend his spare time rubbing shoulders with blood suckers, but then, Kurby hadn't felt like interrogating the man's life story.  On nights where the full moon was rising, action won out over investigation every time.

1.	November 11 - Blood Bank Brimming Again

It had been a dozen decades and Lazarus still noticed how wary magic-folk were around his kind. Even when Lazarus was his better self, humming and loose and amiable, the humans were unsettled. Oh, well. That was all bad P.R., then. Can't take it personally, old Laz, you're a once-human now living an inverted life, your existence entirely depending on the blood animating still-humans. How much even was left of the first Lazarus, who'd only spun thirty years against our more recent dozen dozens? Were it the other way around, he'd have been wary too.

"Alright, alright. Here I thought he was in a hurry," Lazarus chuckled. "That's fine, that's fine with me. He wants to take his time. Old Lazarus has plenty. What did we see, what did we say.. hmmm."

He moved a little back and forth scratched his chin and adjusted his hat. He licked his finger and held it to the wind.

"Big. Dog. Monster of a dog. Hmmm, Regents Park. How much do you think made it through the leaky sieve of Mr. Furrow's mind?"

Just exactly enough, Lazarus had hoped, to scare up a couple (not several) of the Werewolf Hunters. No need to be causing an alarm over what might be, could be nothing.

It didn't take a wix with a mind as sharp as the late, great Albus Dumbledore to formulate a guess as to how to draw out the Werewolf Capture Unit.  Kurby listened as the vampire began to share his thoughts, silently appraising.  The creature's rambling way of speaking reminded him a bit of the verbal tics shared by the new Head of the Department of Mysteries. 

Despite its nature and its predatory canines, this creature didn't come across as immediately threatening.  But then, if it had apparently had some reason to try and get the attention of the Ministry and the WCU....

"Enough made it through to get me here," he allowed, matter-of-fact.  Admitting that wasn't exactly giving away a great secret.  Kurby would much rather risk being drawn into a trap on the full moon than allow a werewolf to rampage unchecked.  If this gave the vampire or some other dark creature bright ideas for the future, then so be it.

He glanced back at the street, rubbing a hand over his face.  There weren't any known safe houses near here, not in such a crowded neighborhood.  If there were really and truly a werewolf nearby, it had to be unregistered -- and it likely had some nefarious purpose to allow itself to transform in the middle of London.

"Who saw the dog?" Kurby looked back at the vampire, his brow furrowing.  "Your friend didn't have a lot of details to share.  Did you see it?"

Lazarus laid his hand on his chest again, this time proudly.

"I did, yes. I did see it," he rumbled with a smile.

He really was feeling good about it, his little plan. See a little wrong, do a little good. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't.  The Werewolf Hunter hadn't come around yet, still glaring at him from under world-wary brow. A grim professional on a grim errand only to be bidden so by a Drained Fellow. Perhaps his night would improve.

"I saw it. Whispered it to Tolly, sent him off like a moth. But I saw. And you should see it."

Lazarus took a few more steps into the alley, the darkness folding around him.

"Follow me. We'll ... have a look."

There were probably at least two dozen well-thought out arguments against accompanying the vampire into the dark of the alleyway without telling anyone where he was going.  For starters, Kurby was absolutely certain that if he ever heard about any of the kids in the WCU pulling the same stunt, he would have ripped their heads off himself.  You didn't go on alone.  That was the point of the Capture Unit.  If a predator managed to isolate you from your team, that was the first step on a very short road to a certain, brutal death.

This was the sort of scenario that had popped up in Defense Against the Dark Arts classes during his first year at Hogwarts.  He even thought he recalled something about venturing into a dark alleyway with a vampire being the premise of one of his sister's Muggly the Bear Safety Specials. Step One to Surviving the Magical World:  Don't be a goddamned idiot.

But here he was, actually considering doing just that.

He could have sent a spell to call in Li and Harris -- but then he'd have to put up with Harris, he thought sourly.  Even summoning Level Two via Red Sparks! was an option, though an eminently annoying one.  But Kurby didn't feel like playing it safe.  He'd spent the past several months chafing at circumstances forced upon him, trapped in situations that he had no power to fix: Zelda's possession, swallowing his pride with Greyfriar, all of the drama with Gen, the Dementor attack on St. Mungo's.  After all that, the thought of barreling head-first into trouble against his better judgement somehow had appeal.

Kurby shot the vampire a sharp, almost wolf-like smirk.  He unhooked the silver chain from his belt, looping it loosely over his shoulder -- easier to get at if he needed to use it in a hurry.

"Right behind you," he said cheerfully, and followed the creature into the darkness.

Well, that was easy.

So unexpected was this that Lazarus stopped and stayed for a moment, his own face showing his surprise and skepticism. But the hunter had hoisted his snare.

"Right on."

Lazarus began to slowly move down the alley, watching to see if the wizard would really follow. He did. And he did. And he did. Moments ago Lazarus had been wondering at the existential survival deadlock between magic-folk and the unliving. Wasn't it interesting when things went a little bit differently than usual?

'Don't play with your food,' they always said.

'Why not,' was always his response.

The old maxims on etiquette sur la table were never about personal health, they were always about deviance. Tidy snark set to meter not to care for the liver but to maintain order. That was fine-fine-fine most of the time, but when wizards, werewolves and The Wise all dined together then deviations were necessary.

Confident now that the wizard would follow, Lazarus led the way whistling a tune that couldn't decide if it was in a major or minor key. It just felt like the thing to do because they way he passed was exceptionally dark, even under a full moon. His strides were long and his footfalls were silent. Lazarus knew all the darkest paths along the canal, effortlessly keeping them at a purposeful pace and out of the notice of muggles.

He looked back every so often to check on the wizard, and would mumble something like, "almost there," or, "eyes open."

Soon, they came upon a wall meant to protect pedestrians from the rail tracks on the other side. Lazarus at last came to a stop.  He scratched his chin gently with his knuckles. This is it. Tada.

"I saw him down along the tracks. Mmm, no, not safe, I said.  This, this is a job for careful hands. Where could I find a pair of those?"

The rhetorical question began to imply the vampire's intentions: a welfare intervention. It was a delicate situation and Lazarus had acted more hastily than he usually needed to. A loose werewolf could maim, curse, and kill; and more, set the pot to boiling. Lazarus had a soft spot for night-time tranquility. A werewolf scare, who did that help?

Lazarus's gaze was quiet and unblinking, watching everything.

This wasn't quite a hunt, but it was as close as he was probably going to get tonight.  Kurby stayed a few paces back from his guide, alert to the darkness all around him as the vampire led the way through the empty alleys and streets, away from the light of the full moon.  The jaunty, off-key atmospheric tune that his companion seemed intent on humming made the whole adventure seem more and more like something out of a bad Horror Hour special on the Wizarding Wireless Network.

In some ways, he missed the thrill of it.  The past few years, aside from the spurt of attacks that had followed the first Direwolf incident, there had been fewer and fewer werewolf hunts.  People were still murdered, but as more werewolves chose to follow Ministry regulations and register, the WCU saw less action during their monthly patrols.  It didn't help that his rise in the ranks meant that he spent more time planning and filling out paperwork than he did cracking heads like he used to.  Even when he did take a team into the field, he had to make sure that they all made it home safe, rather than trying whatever daredevil tactic came to mind to take down the beast.

At last, they came to a halt in front of a wall.  It stood a few feet over his head, made out of large concrete bricks.  Kurby eyed it, silently judging what sort of effort it would take to scale it.

He backed up a few paces, glancing over his shoulder to check the darkness behind him one last time.  He hadn't seen any sign that they were being followed, but then, his vampire guide had already demonstrated how silently its kind could move.

"How long ago did you see it?"  He pulled the hood of his silver chainmail coif over his head, fastening it into place as his eyes flicked over to the vampire.  "You sure it was a werewolf in wolf form?"

Tsk. "Your bedside manner is terrible," Lazarus gently chastised, unsatisfied with the werewolf hunter's reaction.

He placed his hand on top of his hat and with a jerk of his chin, he seemed to suddenly disappear. It happened so quickly and the shadows were so dark, it would be difficult to make out the tiny brown bat jotting up into the air. Two seconds later, Lazarus re-appeared, sitting on top of the wall, still holding his hat onto his head.

"It was a werewolf, Mr. Bagnold," he said from above, choosing this moment to demonstrate that this particular wizard was  known. "I've seen werewolves before. Not this one, no no. This one's a newbie. You can tell."

He laughed a little, raspy and low. It felt good to help people.

"Alley oop."

Lazarus once again transformed into a bat, finding his own trousers again (so to speak) in the gravel on the other side of the wall. To his right and left stretched multiple rows of tracks, gently curving out of sight.

One moment the vampire was standing in front of him, and the next the creature had dissolved into the shadows, leaving nothing but a tiny wisp of darkness that darted towards the top of the wall.  A moment later, his guide reappeared, still just as chatty after its sojourn as a bat. 

So it had known who he was when it have approached him.  Kurby did his best to ignore the chill that ran down his back, the sense of dread that came from a monster knowing your name.  If his guide was in any way representative of its species, then vampires certainly knew how to do 'ominous' a hell of a lot more effectively than werewolves did.  But that alone didn't mean that this was a trap or a threat. For all he knew, his vampire guide was simply enamored with its own sense of drama.

But to find out, he'd have to follow the creature to the other side of the wall.  Simply apparating himself to the other side seemed too easy; and besides, if he was going to pretend this was a hunt, then he might as well play by the normal rules and avoid the inevitable crack that came with such a spell.  Kurby backed up another couple of paces, then took a running start at the wall.  This sort of trick had been easier when he'd been eight or ten years younger, but somehow he still managed to scramble just far enough up it that he could get his fingers over the top.  That gave him the edge he needed to haul himself up far enough to swing a leg over.

From the top of the wall, he could see the Muggle train tracks stretching in either direction.  The werewolf hunter paused there for a moment, head tilted, listening silently as he caught his breath.  There was none of the audio cues that he had come to expect: no roaring, no distant howls.  No screams.

The vampire was right about one thing, though. New werewolves had a look about them.  They often seemed somehow more wild, as if the initial burst of searing pain and blood-thirst that came with their first transformation drove them even farther past the brink of bestial madness.

Kurby lowered himself partway off the wall, and then dropped the rest of the way to the ground, taking most of the impact in his knees.

"I didn't realize vampires had a sense of civic duty," he remarked, glancing carefully at the ground.  No sign of footprints, either, but the dirt looked hard-packed -- not the kind that would collect signs of of a werewolf's passage easily.  "Did you see which way it went?"

Lazarus watched with amusement as his mortal 'companion' helfted himself up and over the wall in the most charming mortal manner.

Civic duty?

"This one does."

He hadn't been surprised by human short-sighted assumptions in many decades. Mr. Bagnold, Lazarus did hope, would learn better before his mortal heart ceased its beating. Lazarus tilted his hat back with a flick to the brim and began ambling north-ish along the tracks.

"I can hear him," he said, glancing back. "And smell him."

There was a decommissioned station not far. Indeed, even in the darkness of the walled in tracks, three great dark maws sat in a row up ahead. Inside ran the tracks and inside were the ruins of platforms, stairways, and maintenance passages. All blocked off for public (muggle) safety, but the precautions served little practical impediment to magic folk, vampires, and inexperienced werewolves.

Lazarus's footfalls made very little sound in the ground and the stiff breeze molested not his coat. He felt no chill, the elements learning ages ago they couldn't touch him and seemed to let him be.

"You'll help him," he said. Neither a question nor a command. "Civic duty."

Kurby barked out a laugh, flashing his teeth at the vampire in a quick, wolfish smile.  When it came to werewolves, help was always relative. 

But he wasn't planning on killing the beast, not unless everything else failed first.  For one, he'd have to deal with paperwork and uncomfortable questions at the Ministry, which he'd done a damned good job of steering clear of the past few years.  For another, as idiotically stupid as it was for any werewolf to transform out in public, it was incrementally more forgivable for a newly-turned lycanthrope.  Despite all of the money and time that the Ministry wasted on outreach, not everyone who'd been bitten during a full moon immediately sought out help.  And since the Ides of March catastrophe two years ago, it had become clear that sometimes new werewolves were turned and released against their will.

They were approaching what looked to be some old abandoned station.  Three stone arches stood as a gateway to the darkness, blocked off with wire fencing, with some sort of red and white Muggle barrier in front of it to warn anyone away.  Taken together, the blockage didn't look like it would hold up to a werewolf's fierce bite. 

It was certainly a convenient place for a newly-turned werewolf to transform, well away from the public.  Kurby regarded the entrance to the underground tunnel thoughtfully, and then glanced at the vampire. 

It wasn't too late to call in help or to turn back.  But somehow, he wanted to carry this through alone.  Maybe it was the overwhelming feeling that nothing was straightforward anymore; that everything he did was mired in complicated negotiation.  This, at least, had an objective that was clear and direct.

With a loud crack, the werewolf hunter vanished.  A split second later, he'd reappeared on the other side of the barrier, inside the darkness of the tunnel.  The sound was clearly enough to announce their arrival:  somewhere ahead, obscured by the darkness, he heard a distant, faint howl.

"Well, you ever decide you want a side job, let me know," he told the vampire, half cheerfully.  Sometimes it seemed as if half the goddamned Ministry was only being hired to meet some quota; if they were going to have to be inclusive anyway, they might as well hire a creature whose senses seemed to be potentially useful for Kurby's direct responsibilities.  "You want to tag along for this, or are we callin' it square, since you brought me this far?"