Capítulo 140: Whiteclay VII
Irwin wouldn't tell them about it, but they were a little lost. Scratch that, he had noticed the broken tree he had sliced using the Flaming Whip, which must mean that they were close to the town.
"It's ok, guys! We're not lost!" He yelled through the thick frost and hurricane-level winds that permeated the very air around them.
"Wait, what?"
"We're lost? Fuck!"
He tuned out their complaints, merely focusing his senses on the mental map he had been reconstructing the moment they had begun their trek. With the snow gaining another inch and his phone lost amongst the hubbub of the hunt, Irwin had been using his fading memory to trace his steps back.
Frankly, it was going well that he had initially thought and not at all physically and mentally demanding, even with the extra baggage of the dead body atop his shoulders.
Half an hour after the start of the trek, the trio–quadruplets if the body was included–soon found themselves on the main road. According to a mile marker further up ahead, the little town lay a few miles ahead.
The presence of the road had proven to be an encouraging facet of their trek as they picked up the pace to prevent the frostbite settling in their skin. While Irwin did his best to cover the two–going so far as to distribute his suit and pants and was now running in his boxer shorts and undershirt–there was little he could do for their extremities, which were now black and blue.
His worries were soon overturned with relief when two beams of light emerged from within the chasm of snow and void in front of him. A smile appeared on his face as he dropped the body onto the ground and silently hailed the vehicle appearing in front of him.
With a dull thud, Cyril's body hit the snow-covered ground, which elicited cries of pain and sorrow on the two. He did not pay them any heed, however, as the car arrived beside them and there revealed its driver.
"Hey, bossman." Scott greeted him, unlocking the doors and exiting the vehicle with clothes in hand. "Figured you or someone else needed this."
"Thank fuck." Irwin nearly hugged Scott, but decided otherwise, only hastily donning the warm clothes the man had given him. "Two of you inside. Back seat."
The moment the two were left alone–having thrown the body of Cyril inside of the trunk–Irwin grabbed Scott's arms, which startled the man.
"Something's off about the Wendigo." He warned. "How's the restaurant?"
"Weird… would be putting it mildly." Scott sighed. "Elder Hawkins called for a town meeting and we're invited."
"Really? That dude's name keeps popping up." Irwin remarked as he took out the shamanistic tome he had looted from the cave. "Does this remind you of anything?"
"What?" Scott scanned the book and let his fingers feel the thin, wafer-like papers. The rough borders and cracks in the spine were scrutinized to its full extent, as if it was whispering to Scott to continue caressing its contents. "It reminds me of my grandmother's bible."
●●●●●●
Twenty-one living people and one unconscious woman and or milled about the second floor of the general store, which was deemed by its citizens as its activity center.
In front of the two dozen inhabitants, permanent or otherwise, Elder Christoph Hawkins–a man of strict spine and even stricter discipline–sported a mohawk that ended on a hawk figurine tied into a long braid near his shoulder blades as he stood straight as a fresh pencil.
A thick-rimmed spectacle rested upon his aquiline nose as he sternly gazed at the surrounding people. While most of the people around Whiteclay were white with some having native descent, Elder Hawkins was from the Algogo reserve north of the town.
According to Savoy, Hawkins was a professor emeritus for a nearby Ivy League college before an accident dented his reputation and fractured his family. Now, he served the census town as its figurehead and owner of the only general store within a hundred miles.
If there was anything Irwin had learned these past few months as a hunter and the scion of the Greythorne Clan, it was that whenever someone had a reason to go evil, crazy bastard…
"They will become evil, crazy bastards." He muttered, earning the attention of Savoy The Chef.
"What?"
"Professor emeritus, right? What did he teach?" Irwin wanted more information before he went Rambo on the guy. He didn't know why, but he had a feeling that something was wrong with the guy.
"Native-American studies, I think." Savoy answered before delving into a detailed spiel about Elder Hawkins.
Sure, he was, by all means, a docile and well-meaning servant of the town and had been instrumental in keeping its safety and peace from the local governments and the Indian reserve. He was also half-Cherokee and had once stayed in Indian Reserves further north for the better part of his postdoctoral degree, often delving into the bones of their history and language.
Irwin waited until Elder Hawkins had finished his community warnings, having listed the dangers of going into the blizzard and actually reminding people not to sell drinks to the local Native-American population.
The elder also told the citizens that someone had attacked their local aged grocer, Sonia, in her home, although the elder had neglectfully or, perhaps, tactfully left out that the Wendigo had also eaten the poor old woman. According to Scott, who had joined the investigation after Irwin left, that there was nothing left of the woman except her bones and jewelry.
Irwin had time; Scott was taking care of the hikers he had rescued from the cave and who had reunited with a slowly healing Tania. He also had enough time to solve the mystery of the two Wendigos as the blizzard would probably need a day or two to subside enough for them to continue on their adventure.
"Elder Hawkins, " the hunter called out after the mini-seminar, a bashful smile on his face and a lowered shoulder. "I was hoping to have a minute of your time. I-is that alright?"
Elder Hawking briefly looked at his watch and, for a moment, looked as if he would reject him, but nodded his head in the end. "Ah, of course, of course. How can I help you?"
"My name's Irwin Steel. FBI." He produced his badge for a brief moment, letting the former professor soak in the glimmer in the badge before pocketing it. "Can we talk somewhere private?"
Irwin led Elder Hawkins to a more private area of the floor, past the on-lookers who had hanged by to escape from the hell-like cold outside. The good elder, however, wanted to walk-and-talk and Irwin obliged, the two now walking towards the stairs that led to Elder Hawkin's private office and abode.
"Make yourself at home. Do you want some tea or water?" Elder Hawkins asked as he went past Irwin and entered his private office.
"Coffee. Would be… good." Irwin scanned the room and saw it was bereft of anything that would point to a mystical side.
From the brown couches to the warm, beige walls and the coffee-colored tables and chairs, the apartment screamed of warmth and homeliness. And yet, a nagging feeling kept coursing through Irwin's body, as if reminding him not to lower his guard.
By the next few moments, Irwin had pinpointed this feeling to the invisible armor he had been wearing underneath his clothing. Viceroy's Promise, a mystical armor that made him loathe a relative to the point of death–the relative he had chosen to be the Ancestor–and one that had allowed him to borrow a skill: Danger Sense.
If he had learned anything from experience beforehand, that would be to take this sensation seriously.
"Are you alright, agent?" Elder Hawkins returned with a cup of coffee in hand. His otherwise lax appearance and nerdy look betrayed the time-dependent anxiousness he had shown Irwin earlier. "Please, take a seat."
Irwin took a seat opposite Elder Hawkins. Behind him were the French windows that kept being banged by the blistering snow. "Thank you, Elder. I don't want to waste your time, especially with the death that had occurred a few hours earlier. As such, it would be best if you answer my question to the best of your abilities."
"Of course. This is not the first time I've cooperated with the FBI." Elder Hawkins chuckled at the fake agent's demeanor. "Tell me, though, which division are you from?"
"Counterfeit." Irwin said the first name he had thought of.
"R-really?" And that somehow broke Elder Hawkins as his eyes dilated and his thigh muscles tensed for a brief moment. "Well, that–How can I help?"
Irwin took out the Algonquian Transliteratory Codex from his inner jacket pocket and dropped it unceremoniously on the coffee table. The initial sight of the book caused Elder Hawkin's eyes to go wide as a flying saucer before the shock morphed into surprise and then anger as soon as the tome flopped onto the table.
"W-what the hell?" Elder Hawkins lunged for the book and Irwin let him, backing off with a forceful shove that slid the couch he was sitting on a few inches off-tilt.
"Where did you get…" The former professor caught himself, locking eyes with Irwin as the hunter faked surprise and confusion. "Do you know what this is? This is precious."
"Is it?" Irwin whistled, feigning interest. "We found that on a raid and, according to one of our assets, it's written in Algonquin and, frankly, we don't have any native speakers in our team to handle translation."
"Oh!" Elder Hawkins perked up after that lie, gazing at the back with relief and curiosity in his eyes. "Well, uh, what are you–what are you looking for in this book?"
"We believe it's a codex of some sort." Irwin said, causing a twitch in the man's eye. "Something important to their operation. Maybe it contains their transactions or rituals, perhaps? Something that'll help us make sense of what these monsters do."
"R-ritual?" Elder Hawkins visibly gulped, caressing the spine of the tome with practiced hands. "You sound as if they truly are monsters, special agent Steel."
"They are, sir." Irwin leaned in, hoping to spook the man. "The ritual I speak of is… esoteric, even by our standards. They come in and out, do some crazy shit that'll boggle a man's mind… then disappear for months at a time. As if they're hibernating or waiting or some shit."
It entertained Irwin every time he spoke words that either meant the Wendigo living a few miles off of here or international criminals.
"Well, I don't think I can translate this tonight. How long are you going to stay here?" Elder Hawkins asked.
"Hopefully after the blizzards subside." Irwin replied honestly.
"Well, would you be willing to leave this to me… at least for tonight?" He requested.
Irwin nodded and stood up, shaking the man's hand. "We'll take the book before we leave. Elder Hawkins, you are doing your country a favor."
Elder Hawkins smiled bashfully, either not curious as to why Irwin had discarded his shy behavior earlier or had not noticed its disappearance. "Let me show you to the door."
Before Elder Hawkins could move away from the chair he had sat on, he turned around and faced Irwin. "Uh, special agent, a quick question."
"Shoot." Irwin narrowed his eyes.
"Do you really think I'm a fool?" An irate grin appeared on the man's face as he barked a word in a language Irwin could not understand.
For a moment, an alarm blared in Irwin's body as a terrifying presence appeared not far from their position. From within the very depths of the apartment, a familiar silhouette of a grotesque monster appeared in the shadows.
Not even a second passed as Irwin kicked Elder Hawkins away, sending the middle-aged man into the other corner of the room. That, however, merely sealed the hunter's fate as another Wendigo emerged from the shadows and barreled towards him.
Time did not show him mercy as the Wendigo crashed into his relatively tiny form and sent him careening towards the French window. Irwin felt the wind caress the nape of his neck as his eyes met that of the hungered gaze of the Wendigo.
Then he succumbed to the darkness.
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