Saturday, August 4
Just before 8 AM
The McBoid Farm in Scotland

With a loud crack, Kurby Bagnold appeared at the edge of the McBoid family farm.

His first full moon watch of August had ended only at sundown the previous day, and there was no doubt that the werewolf hunter was still looking ragged. He hadn’t gotten around to shaving yet, and everything about him seemed a little rough. Normally, the days spent following a watch were spent sleeping, catching up on paperwork, and little else. If it had been anyone but Duncan McBoid who had sent a message and asked him for help with a little work task two days after a full moon, Kurby would have pretended he never had gotten the owl.

But ask Duncan had, and so here Kurby was, blinking blearily up at the McBoid farmhouse and wondering what exactly had been so urgent with some winged horses that it couldn’t have waited one more weekend.

His friend had been very clear in his letter that Kurby wasn’t to go up to the house. Kurby dragged his hands over his face, trying to will himself to wake up more than the coffee had, and started for the barn. Duncan had given a lot of very specific instructions, come to think of it. Wear dark clothes. Make sure to wear good work boots. (Not that he owned any others.) Leave his Ministry identification and anything valuable at home.

It had been a curious set of instructions, and Kurby had nearly sent a snarky letter back wondering why the winged horses gave a damn as to what color he wore, but everything had been too hectic in preparation for the full moon, and so he’d merely owled back to confirm that yes, he’d be there bright and early, following whatever damned stupid directives Duncan gave him. To be fair, the werewolf hunter thought as he came around the corner of the barn, he didn’t exactly know very much about magical creatures besides werewolves. For all he knew, maybe wearing orange or blue or pink or whatever made the horses decide they wanted to eat you or needed to mate with you or something stupid.

The door to the barn was open. Duncan wasn’t far inside, bent over and adding what looked to be the last of some items into a leather bag. Like Kurby, he was also wearing dark clothes and boots, looking for all the world like he was ready to step back in time to one of their adventures scouting during the war.

There were no winged horses in sight, but he could hear a couple of them nickering quietly from their stalls.

“Oi,” Kurby announced tiredly, by way of letting Duncan know that he was there. He leaned one arm on the side of the barn door, raising his eyebrows pointedly in his friend’s direction. “Y’know, if you need help shovelin’ something, mate, one wand works just as well as two do.”

Duncan had been awake for nearly three hours by the time 8am rolled around. All traces of sleep and weariness had departed the Scotsman earlier, during his morning routine of working out, showering, and eating breakfast. Once that was out of the way he had set about the task of making sure everything was in order for the upcoming job. While he couldn’t control his luck, he could control preparation.

As it turned out, his work bag was in desperate need of restocking, the supplies inside becoming thin in nature. For such situations, he kept fresh and extra bottles and materials in a different supply trunk under his bed. Other inconspicuous supplies were kept in the barn.

His niece, Moira, had left for work a little early, not that it mattered to him. Had she still been at home coming up with a plausible excuse for his friend’s presence so early in the morning wouldn’t have been difficult. Assuming the werewolf hunter followed his lead on the matter, anyway.

“Oi,” the aforementioned hunter made his presence known. Perfect timing, since Angus would be starting to stir at the house within the next thirty minutes. While Duncan didn’t mind making up excuses for Moira, he preferred to not need to with his brother. The reason being simply that his niece didn’t talk much or ask quite as many questions as his brother did. It sometimes became rather time consuming.

“Actually, I need your help with one of my business trips,” Duncan replied without looking up, pausing between the words ‘my’ and ‘business’ just long enough to be significantly noticeable. He had been debating how to tell Kurby about his biggest secret and he still wasn’t entirely sure. Tossing his friend in blind definitely wasn’t the right way to go about it though, he knew.

The Scotsman closed up the bag when he finished sorting and turned to face his friend, taking in his appearance and general state of being. While he hated asking Kurby for assistance so soon after the full moon but it couldn’t be helped. There was no way he was going to drag his family into this mess, and there was no one else he trusted to thoroughly watch his back.

“You look terrible. If you ever need a pick-me-up while we’re out let me know.” Duncan said, half teasing but completely serious. Then with a shake of his head he added, “Sorry, mate. I’d have waited another week if it were possible.”

Everyone felt like they had a bleeding right to comment on his appearance. Kurby made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes, unimpressed with Duncan's observation or offer. He'd followed all of the Scotsman's stupid rules and dragged himself out of bed and all the way to the McBoid farm, and he'd be damned if he were going to drink some gobshite potion just to keep up with his comrade. If Duncan was going to insist on getting his help the morning after a full moon watch, then Kurby was damned well going to make sure that his old friend had to put up with his constant griping.

"You dragged me all the way here to go horse trading?" he asked disbelievingly.

It wasn't that he thought poorly of his friend's profession. It was just that it was -- ...well, boring as hell was not an unfair way of describing it. Kurby logically understood why Duncan had given up on the Ministry after the war; he, too, had not been entirely thrilled with returning to an institution that had proven it could become so corrupted. But if he were ever to give up his adrenaline-filled profession in favor of a boring, placid life helping his taciturn older brother peddle winged horses, sheer boredom would probably drive him to jab a wand in his eye before the month was out.

But now here he was, still bleary-eyed after the full moon, about to spend his supposed day off trailing along behind his friend while he...bartered and negotiated? Chaperoned the winged pony to its destination? Kurby didn't even know.

"I'm not ridin' one of those things," he informed Duncan sourly, crossing his arms. "Are you sure Angus can't help you? The damned horses are probably goin' to bite me, anyway."

Duncan almost laughed at the expression on his friend’s face, but managed to restrain himself. The incredulous expression alone made the entire exchange worth it. Blaming Kurby wasn’t an option, no more than he could blame any other McBoid were they to learn the truth.

Once the Scotsman was certain his voice wouldn’t give away his mirth he replied, “Angus can’t help me because he doesn’t know about this job.” Duncan paused to let that thought sink in for a moment. “And something might bite you, but it won’t be a horse.”

Another moment passed while he tried to work out what to say next. The short but brief ‘I have a secret life’ sounded far too pretentious. In this case, simple and straight facts would likely work the best, and quickest. He hated guessing games, especially when they could be avoided.

“I’ve been lying to almost everyone for roughly the past thirteen years.” Duncan crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest stall. It was a semi-relaxed pose, one that the hunter would be familiar with from days gone by. “In short, I have a second job. The work is mostly the same as when I was with the beast division at the Ministry. Without the red tape. My family knows nothing about it. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve told about it.”

The first person he’d told on the right side of the law, anyhow. If the Ministry learned about it there was a chance he could find himself inside a jail cell. Not everything Duncan did was entirely legal, after all.

As his friend started talking, Kurby's expression was obviously completely disinterested. Whatever Duncan had dragged him here for -- whatever emergency business deal involving winged horses necessitated the younger wizard's immediate presence, right now, today, following on the heel of an exhausting full moon -- could only be inconsequential. He'd go along with it, and maybe he'd even help a little, but nothing was going to stop him from dragging his heels and griping loudly the entire time.

He'd been prepared to blow off Duncan's speech with another eye roll, but then the other wizard continued to speak.

“I’ve been lying to almost everyone for roughly the past thirteen years..."

The werewolf hunter went suddenly and utterly still.

A second job. He stared straight at Duncan, eyebrows raised high even as his face stayed expressionless. Back before the Ministry had fallen, the Scottish wizard had worked for Level Four as a beast handler, though one with a particular focus. He'd helped to re-home magical creatures that had been abused or neglected by their wix owners. Kurby had only occasionally crossed paths with him then -- the Werewolf Capture Unit had been part of the Beast Wing, but under Theobald Mainwaring's leadership, they'd kept mostly to themselves -- but it had been clear how passionate the other man had been for his work. That had been part of what had perplexed him about why Duncan insisted on keeping to a quiet life after the war.

But apparently, life hadn't stayed all that quiet after all.

The other wizard had finished his confession. Kurby stayed silent for several beats longer, dark eyes locked on the other man.

"What the hell are you draggin' me into?" he asked tersely at last.