Ulysses Mathewson, human once again, lay unmoving on the floor.
“Silver shells, tempered with copper and lead,” explained the Woodsman. “Hurts somethin’ awful, but it won’t kill him.”
He reached into his coat and produced what looked like a silver pendant, hanging from a matching chain. Drake watched as he placed the pendant around the neck of Mathewson and muttered something under his breath in what might have been Latin. A white spark flickered briefly across the face of the pendant.
“Just a little something to keep him from changing again,” he explained.
Drake nodded and extended a hand.
“Drake Mandible.”
The man studied his face carefully, then shook.
“Victor Mason,” he said. “Thanks for the save.”
“I wouldn’t have had to if I hadn’t emptied your gun.”
“You didn’t know,” shrugged the Woodsman. “Your concern was for the civilians. I respect that. I guess I could have been a little more discreet about this, I don’t deal with ordinary people in my line of work.”
“Which would be?” asked Drake.
Mason held up his right palm, revealing a small, triangular- shaped brand.
“Woodsman, third class,” he said. “I’m a part of a clan that maintains order between humans and the beings you would consider to be supernatural: Vampires, faeries, ghosts, that sort of thing. Most prefer to keep to themselves, but then you’ve got the ones like Mathewson here.”
“And that’s where you come in, right?”
Mason nodded.
Hearing the sound of approaching sirens, Mason went over to Mathewson and hauled up, holding him in a fireman’s carry.
“Time to make myself scarce and I suggest you do the same. It’ll be tough explaining this to the police, especially since Mathewson probably shut down all the cameras.”
Drake didn’t like it, but he could see his point and followed Mason out the back exit...
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