1400 hours, Werewolf Safe House. Dumfriesshire, Scotland.


The two-storey stone house[1] looked perfectly innocuous to the untrained eye, sitting on its own lot in the Scottish countryside and beneath a rapidly darkening sky. To the initiated, the insides of the peculiar building were well known. They would know, as well, that it was left unmanned for most of the month and attended by two or three sorry souls every full moon. The rooms (perhaps once used as guest rooms in a quaint getaway) lacked beds and amenities, and any kind of decor at all really... to say nothing of their solid steel doors, better suited to prisons.

Prisons were exactly where Jebediah Layton wished all werewolves could reside, awaiting the appointed hour of their death.

And he was quite happy to play reaper. Not that he looked it. No, this afternoon he more resembled his sometimes-friend[2] Figaro Sellaphix - down to the worn out sweatshirt and straight cut jeans. Only his shoes were uncharacteristic: black leather lace up boots, recently polished.

The young mister Sellaphix had, over coffee one morning, mentioned in passing that he intended to work part-time as safe house attendant on full moons. It was straightforward money, Layton supposed. One night a month. There were worst ways to earn a bit of cash if you didn't mind the hours. Or the smell. There wasn't much of a stench now as the lycans had yet to arrive. Posing as Figaro, Layton had come in early and dealt with the other attendant; a chipper witch who was now perfectly unconscious in the closet behind the reception desk.

In a facetious attempt at normality, the safe house entrance hall was set up in the same fashion as a roadside inn. A reception desk on one side, with many keys dangling off their keychains behind it. On the other side, a stairwell led up to the 'rooms'. Everything looked rather chintz down here, more 'haunted motel' up there.

Layton was examining the safe house register when the front door creaked open and he looked up from the book, finger placed just beneath the names of Robert and Richard Dunnigan.

1.	Reference Image: LINK
2.	6th Oct - Puddles of Blood - Coffee buddies!

It was all supposed to be rather straightforward. Check everyone in, see that they have what they need, then sit there all night. Figaro and the other attendant would trade off shut-eye, he'd rifle through Quidditch magazines, listen to late-night WWN, and get paid for it.  The sun started going down as early as four-thirty or five this time of year, so Figaro floo'd into the village around two.  The walk to the safe house was cold and damp.

Figaro came in through the old door with a rush of chilly air. He peeled off his hat and ruffled his hair, talking before he looked over at the desk. Instead he scanned the bulletin board as he took off his coat. The heavy door closed behind him.

"Does anyone ever clear this out? This cat called Patches has been missing for 4 years. But c'mon, what do you say, want to come with me to a Calliope Cavendish concert in 2002? "

Having not immediately heard any feedback to his truly hilarious observations, Figaro glanced over his shoulder at the counter. He had to double-take. One would think that seeing yourself would be an immediate recognition, after all, you'd seen yourself in pictures and in the mirror your entire life. But it took Figaro a hard three or four seconds of ruling out possibilities. That was his nose, his eyes, his hair, his shoulders. It wasn't someone who looked like himself; it was him. Figaro laughed nervously, fighting the sick-making dread.

"What the hell...?"

He really had picked the perfect person to impersonate. Sellaphix was all but ready to settle into the evening's routine by the time he clocked his doppelgänger standing behind the reception desk - wand in hand. Layton always had his wand in hand if he could help it, though the boy had given him ample time to draw his.

           "What the hell...?"

Giving it a flick, he sent Figaro flying back into the bulletin board with a Slam! and quickly froze him into place by the wrists and ankles. It was tempting to get rid of the kid all at once but he might prove to be useful again. And there was the message Layton wanted to send.

This wasn't a message for regular people, after all. He lifted his chin and looked at the younger wizard in the eye. The cold expression he wore did not suit the stolen face.

"Eradicate the werewolf threat," he declared in calm, authoritative voice, followed by a twist of the wand: "Ossa ruptor!" A streak of silver light cut through towards the pinned wizard, loudly fracturing his right leg. Figaro fell to the floor like a ragdoll and Layton hopped over the reception counter to approach him.

He stood over the boy and flexed his grip. "Tell them I do this for the good of wizardkind."

The voice that came from his copy's mouth wasn't his, its words could never have been Figaro's either. And the spell he cast with a wand he didn't know caused a pain like Figaro hadn't felt in his life.

Figaro would lose consciousness in a state of dizzying pain and confusion. There wasn't even enough time to be properly afraid, or event take full breaths. He hit the ground then rolled on his back, and heard himself sucking in sharp short breaths. His whole world was a broken leg, the floor, and a whole body.

Really, all he had time to do was put up a hand in self-defense and think, 'well shit, I'm going to die.'  He thought he might have said, "don't."

1540 hours


There had been an accident at the safe house she usually transformed at, in Buckinghamshire not far from where her parents lived. Something or other about a runaway Manticore - she didn't ask and Beasts Division were being sheepishly quiet. The house in Dumfries came at the recommendation of a mentee; apparently it was meant to be a nice quiet place, perfect for a peaceful recovery the morning after.

Adrestia couldn't even picture the morning after. The world seemed to start and end over the span of this evening. Every time she transformed, it was like a walk on the plank. What came at the end... she didn't want to think about it or to remember it later.

"Hello! Sorry sorry I'm late!" she exclaimed anxiously as she came through the front door, hanging up her coat. Beneath it, she was wearing a track suit. "There's space, yeah?"

Closer to the full moon, Tia was more likely to feel anxious than grumpy. Yes, she wanted to literally claw people's eyes out when they asked stupid questions at the museum, but she was also very angry at herself for wanting to do that! "Oh. Just the one of you?"

The  young wizard behind the reception looked annoyed at her last-minute arrival, but he slid the register around for her to sign. "Short on staff, soz," he shrugged, glancing at a rickety grandfather clock in the corner. Tia frowned to herself as she signed the book - she would have to talk to someone on the Werewolf Wing about this. It was against policy to have only one attendant in-house.

"Here you go," she lowered the quill and handed over her wand.  He turned around to the key rack behind him while Tia watched. The rack was a wall of thin, narrow shelves - each with a little hook above to hang room keys.

The attendant took one of the last remaining keys and placed her wand on the corresponding shelf.

Layton kept checking his watch as he led the final 'guest' up the stairs. His polyjuice potion was due to run out at any moment now and he still had to change into clothes that would fit his original build. They turned into the corridor upon reaching the upper landing. Here, the chintz wallpaper was yellowed and peeling. Dark green gaslight lamps lit their way, a weak light.

He stopped at Room No.14. Incongruous to the rest of the decor, the doors were of battered solid steel with the numbers plainly painted on.

            "Hey, man, what are those for?" Adrestia Gamp queried, confused.

Layton looked over his shoulder while he was unlocking the door. She was pointing at the large metal hooks that had been screwed into the walls from top to bottom on either side further down the passage. He pushed the door open and snorted. "I dunno. I just work here, lady," he lied.

The witch shot him a glare but she stepped through into the bare room, aware of time constraints.

"Good luck," he wished her in a bored voice before shutting the door and using the key to lock it. Layton drew his wand just then: he had to quiet cast an additional protection charm to strengthen the defences - couldn't risk accidents when he was working later.  Figaro and the other attendant were locked up in a closet, both of them wandless and sporting broken legs.

For the good of wizardkind. If Sellaphix managed to pass on that trite line, it would be handy. Layton himself could care less about the good of mankind. He walked down the passage, checking each room door as the polyjuice potion slowly began to wear off - Figaro's youthful skin folding into wrinkles, his bright eyes sinking back into Layton's dark gaze.

It was time, soon. The moon was rising.

1630 hours


Howling. First, from beyond the house. Wolves of the nearest Scottish forest come to serenade the moon and their unnatural kin. Then, from within the house. Screaming mingled with the howling, loud THUMPS! and low, pained growls. The Wireless played over it.

Dressed all in black and finally back in his own form, Layton dropped a cigarette on the stairs before stepping on the bud. With each footfall, the silver shackles hanging from his belt gave a musical jingle.

He took another fag out of its pack, lighting it as he ascended towards the noise overhead. Oh, he didn't smoke. This bloke in Glasgow though, who collected anti-werewolf memorabilia, smoked like a bloody chimney.

It was an easy thing to obtain his preferred brand of wizarding cigarettes. Layton burned through the second one by the time he got to the landing. Up here, the howls were deafening. A violent SLAM! caused him to flinch. Even he felt a flutter of nerves - surrounded by the beasts in a closed space, each strike enough to put a man out of commission. Layton dropped the second bud and drew his wand.

He breathed in and out, slowly, letting the world come properly into focus. The stench of wet dog, the sound of a lovely song coming on the Wireless downstairs.

At the very end of the corridor, two doors faced one another, and the space between them was crisscrossed by two walls of silver web. The Dunnigan brothers were transforming in these rooms but Layton had unlocked the door for only one of them earlier. He lit his final cigarette and walked towards the intricate cage woven out of several rolls of Tenacious Twine, knots bound together at the hooks in the wall. Those had taken time to install. Twine could hold a werewolf just fine; wall fixtures, less so.

The door slammed open abruptly and he dropped the unfinished fag, stepping back as a massive werewolf crashed through. Robert Dunnigan, this one, snarling. His impact dented the other door. Layton laughed - it threw itself at him, screeching at the burn of the twine.

It was coated in pure silver. He twirled his wand, staring while the dumb animal pushed its jaws through a gap in the web. Blood dribbled down its muzzle, he could smell the flesh sizzling. The howls around them peaked, bellowing through the walls, other werewolves provoked by the noises out here.

"Come on, baby." Layton reached for the manacles on his waist. "Let's dance."