Callahan Is Not A Dog Person

Note: Takes places more or less directly after 'Contrition'.

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The wind has gotten worse, and as soon as the priest and his new ‘friend’ step outside a cloud of dry leaves and dust flutter around their legs like rancid butterflies. Eberhardt searches inside his pockets and brings out the lighter and a half-burnt cigar.

“I hope you don’t mind I smoke a little, I need to warm my bones,” he grunts as he lights the cigar. The other could have chronic asthma for all he cares, his body is screaming for some nicotine.

"Col', fingers, warm heart?" comes the response.

Callahan follows the priest's fingers as the other man lifts the cigarette to his mouth. There is a hinge of jealousy to his gaze.

“More like zhe coming of a new Ice Age is biting me in zhe arse…” Eberhardt responds, puffing thick, bluish smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He puts the zippo back into the pocket. “Let’s walk you to your new home before we both turn into icicles, ja?”

"Ye no' th' most orthodox o' holy men, be ye, Father?" Callahan observes and falls into the other's gait as they being walking.

“Nor is your mother,” he coughs, a cloud of smoke leaving his lungs. “Nein. I haven’t been wearing zhe habit for long, even if I have been dealing with all zhis sort of religious and mystical jazz since I was a little boy. Priesthood came to me like your new job to you tonight, mein Freund. One blink of an eye and I’m a church in the middle of nowhere giving garlic and bottles of holy water to a bunch of old widows…”

Callahan raises a bemused eyebrow at the old man's attempt at insulting him.

"Y' needn't be call'd Father in order ta have th' faith," he says.

“But you do if you want to avoid zhe Chimps from putting your old bones in jail for presumably ‘satanic practices’ and for a pile of mysteriously dead people in a garage… a cassock can protect you more zhan you think. It is fascinating.”

"Th' church watches out for their own."

Eberhardt looks over his shoulder to the tall hunter… Callahan… then smiles with smoky teeth.

“You could say zhat, ja.”

They walk a bit longer through a stone paved road, covered in more leaves and surrounded by tall, murmuring oak trees. After avoiding a few puddles of water and a couple of fallen branches both men arrive to a clearing near the forest. As far as they can see in the dark there are four to five small houses, more like cottages, sharing patches of what would be gardens between them.

"Homely," Callahan comments.

“Wait to see how zhey look inside. Hopefully zhe rats will have eaten each other and you will spend your night in peace…” he says and walks towards one of the cottages in the middle, following a muddy road.

Amidst the sound of boots slapping on wet soil and the rattle of the wind through lofty branches, there is an occasional shuffling of vegetation from a line of brush by the forest edge. It comes and goes intermittently and the dense ferns do well to conceal what is ambling around in the dark. The sound of harried flapping erupts from the bushes and, without warning, out flies a pheasant, clearly startled.

Eberhardt stops dead on his tracks and extends an arm in front of Callahan, both to stop him from advancing and to cover him from any possible attacks.

“Stupid birds…” he murmurs under his breath.

Said bird only manages to flutter so far before it clumsily topples to ground, strewn feathers scattering in the air behind it. It skitters across the track in front of them, leaving a slight trail of red that quickly mixes with the murky pools of rainwater.

Callahan's brown eyes trail after the unsteady route of the bird. Something akin to recognition flitters across his gaunt features.

"There's game in them woods," he mumbles. "Summat's feelin' bold, huntin' sae close t' houses."

Eberhardt is about to dismiss the hunter’s comment until he thinks twice, then tenses considerably and puts a hand in his inner pocket.

“Zhere are no predators on zhis side of zhe valley…”

Quickly, the rifle is slid off Callahan's shoulder and into his arms with naught but a simple grunt at the pain shooting up his shoulder.

For a while, there is stillness. The open space echoes with the call of evening birds, chattering away in shrill tones. Then, for a moment, what looks like two, reflective eyes peers through layered fronds.

In less than a moment of breath, they stare down the loaded barrel of the large elephant rifle.

K-chk.

At the sharp click, the watchful eyes widen and move above the foliage. The shape is difficult to make out, blending well into the blackness behind, but the distinct appearance of two, upright ears show that - whatever it is - it is very much alert.

Eberhardt, still as a stone, narrows his eyes and curses at his poor eyesight.

“Was zum Teufel…” he growls.

"No, predators, y'said. Let's keep it tha' way," Callahan growls, and takes aim, finger on the trigger.

The ears vanish, perhaps pinning back, as the creature’s sense of danger takes hold. It bolts back into the overgrowth, disappearing back into the shadows from where it crept.

"D'anam don diabhal," the marksman swears and makes to walk closer to the edge of the forest.

Just before the hunter takes another step a huge hand shoots forward and grabs the sharp shoulder, making the taller man stop on his tracks.

“Zhis one is an ally,” he says firmly. “If it was an enemy it would have attacked us already.”

"Gread leat!" Callahan shoves off the hand. "Thas' wha' ye think, Father. Them animals only attack if they think they's got th' bigger cock, no reason else."

He starts towards the forest in large, determined strides.

"Dis one appears dickless, bu' ne'erth'less..." he trails off meaningfully, scouting through the dark clumps of leaves with experienced eyes.

With large, hurried steps the priest catches up with Callahan and his firm hand returns to the shoulders, this time actually pulling backwards with some force.

“Zhat will be because she is a woman,” Eberhardt growls angrily, making the other spin around and face him. “She is protected by our church, Depp!”

"They ain't pets."

“Well, you got something right…” the priest barks, then turns toward the darkness of the forest. Helping his voice project by cupping his hand around his mouth he shouts into the thick blackness. “Brandyyy!!! Come here, Schätzchen! It’s me, father Eberhardt!”

The voice is familiar, she recognises that much. Though her heart is thumping in her chest and all instincts tell her to run, the creature of the night dares to falter, ducking behind a thick tree. Large, clawed appendages grasp onto the trunk and she peers around, ears cocking every which way.

Disgust floods Callahan's face and draws his lips up into a sneer.

"Sit on Santa's brass bollocks an' kick his shins," he murmurs. "Dat's a gammy little bitch werewolf off its cycle."

“Ja, it’s a long story, mein Freund…” and even if the stranger is itching to know all the little details the priest has something more important to do. He walks towards the werewolf with his hands up for her to see and continues in a mellower voice. “It’s alright, Brandy, zhere’s no need to patrol anymore for tonight. Do you want to come with me and look for zhe others, hm?”

The young werewolf eyes the tall priest, flinching involuntarily as twigs crack beneath the heels of his boots. She snorts at the air, picking up on the scent of strong tobacco. A ‘paw’ gingerly extends to the ground, supporting her small frame as she moves forward.

Callahan's finger hovers on the trigger.

He makes a low noise of dissent.

“Shut up, Callahan…” he grunts without taking his eyes off the lupine figure. She must be really influenced by the mind of the beast, or quite scared by the sight of a stranger with a gun. “Brandy, come over here, it’s fine. The rangy guy is not going to harm you, you have my promise, Schätzchen…”

"Your promise… no' mine."

The gunman narrows his eyes at the tiny mutt. Rifle still in hand, and very much ready to shoot her ruddy little head right off her shoulders, he straightens up and stares her down, knowing that his body language reads as an absolute threat.

Brandy’s approach is full of hesitation. As she shuffles closer into a patch of moonlight, it’s clear to see the smear of blood around her mouth, accompanied by a few sticky feathers. Her eyes, like pale saucers, flick between the priest she knows and the aggressive stranger. His posturing does little to cool her nerves. With a shift of weight, she hunkers her shoulders and arches her back, bearing a set of stained, jagged teeth.

"Imeacht gan teacht ort. Is yer little oinseach tame, Father?" he says, and shifts the rifle to his shoulder.

“Shoot her and I will put zhat gun up your arse, then pull it out of your mouth. And zhat is a promise…” he growls towards him, not even flinching. “Now put your weapon down before we all regret it. Especially you.”

A moment of tense silence pass over the trio.

The the rifle is lowered, the safety clicks back on.

In her current state, she’s unable to discern exactly what is going on. The deep growl of the Father and the unexpected clicking makes her skittish, backing away once more to the security of the gnarled tree roots. She huffs, then lets out a low whine.

"Wh' is th' story wi' this one, then?" Callahan grunts, unimpressed by it all.

“A poor kid zhat was in zhe wrong place at the wrong time,” as he speaks Eberhardt lowers to one knee, very slowly, still showing his palms and with his cigar still glowing in the corner of his mouth. “She came to zhis part of zhe country with a group of nomads, looking for a cure for lycanthropy. Zhe local family of vampires slaughtered all her pack and experimented on her as a party diversion, poor creature.”

The man’s gesture is met with suspicion. Her gaze constantly shifts to the lanky newcomer, evidently unsettled by his presence. Despite all her nerves, she takes the opportunity to clamber over to Eberhardt’s hands and bumps her head against one, all the while using his hulking body as an obstacle between her and Callahan.

“Zhere we go, Brandy. You’re alright with me. You must be so cold, poor thing,” Eberhardt’s voice becomes a little smoother and quieter when talking to the young werewolf. He takes the liberty to comb the unruly hair away with thick fingers and cleans the feathers and blood away with his knuckles.

“She came here to be cured, so she could have a normal life… and zhose soulless bastards made it worse,” he says, acknowledging Callahan now Brandy seems more trusting.

Even though Callahan's demeanour screams 'cry me an effin' river' he simply says:

"Y'do yer habit justice, Father."

Eberhardt snorts.

“I suppose I have a soft heart for strays,” he answers.

The rifle returns to its place over the thin shoulder.

"I suppose tha' bodes well fer me, then," he grins cockily.

“Nah, you’re just lucky…” Eberhardt sighs, then scratches Brandy behind the ears. “Which reminds me, you should be resting. Your wounds must be hurting,” and as he speaks he slowly stands up, a hand still keeping contact with the werewolf.

"'s nothin. Jus' need ta sit down a bit."

“I insist,” the priest says firmly and with a light pat encourages Brandy to follow him as he walks past Callahan. “I will show you your cottage, zhen I will take care of her and zhe others.”

Obediently, she follows, though she doesn’t choose to potter around by his side for more than a few paces. Instead, she springs up onto his back with an effortless bound, scrambling to find a comfortable position to rest.

Eberhardt winces after the extra weight is added, but nonetheless he keeps walking and adjusts his arms to let Brandy rest properly.

“She… does zhat too…” the priest looks towards the hunter and simply shrugs as he walks.

Brandy rests her chin atop Eberhardt’s head and looks back to Callahan once more. Who is this man? Why is he here? Is he bad? He looks bad. She doesn’t like bad. She likes to kill bad. But so too do the priests? Her ears flop down. It’s all terribly confusing.

Her glance is returned with another nasty sneer. Callahan tucks his bad arm around his back and watches where his step falls, lest his weight put more pressure on the long stitches over his stomach and hips.

He follows by lagging behind, choosing to keep an eye on the priest and his mangy mutt.

When they draw close to the cottages, clearing the forest, Brandy leaps off into the mud and runs over to a squat cobble wall. Without pause, she jumps clear over it, kicking up dirt behind her, and scampers to one of the dusty windows. Her nose bumps against the glass, leaving rings of condensation from her hot breath.

Eberhardt chuckles at the werewolf’s display of gymnastics and enters the lawn through the small, wooden door that once was white.

“It’s nothing fancy, but it has a bed, a stove and a place where you can keep food for yourself,” he comments as he opens the door to the house with one key from the massive metal ring that all keys seem to come from. “Furthermore, it’s protected.”

"Protect'd, y'say," Callahan prompts, glancing over his shoulder at the werewolf.

“If you’re not vanquishing Evil, zhere’s a lot of free time left… and one gets creative…” the German opens the door and steps in in one long stride. As he does, he turns on the light inside the Spartan looking room. “Come here, I will show you.”

"Right, right.."

Callahan ambles inside, ducking under the door frame as he does.

Brandy falls away from the window and trots through the door, tracking in mud and clots of gritty dirt between her clawed feet. She takes interest in the back of Callahan’s coat, watching the roughened tails flapping about as he walked.

"G'off," Callahan snarls, giving a half-hearted kick in the direction of the curious nose. "I see them teeth a yours showin'; 'm kickin' 'em out."

She doesn’t heed the warning and snarls after jerking her head away from the offending foot. There’s a strong temptation to lunge out and start chewing the hem of his coat to shreds, but her sensitive nose picks up a curious scent on it that makes her brim with unease. It’s both familiar and entirely foreign, all at once.

“You two. Stop at once,” Eberhardt grouses, then addresses just Callahan. “Look at the frame of zhe door…” The German walks a step forwards and brushes a thumb over the length over the wooden frame. As he does so dust falls from what seem to be lines of runes, carved very crudely into the surface.

“Barriers,” he simply says.

Callahan ignores the wolf in lieu of inspecting the frame.

"Any failsafes?" he grunts out.

“Salt on zhe windows and zhe entrance. Some circles I painted under the floor planks. And sleeping with an eye open,” Eberhardt chuckles grimmly. “Nothing really comes here to zhis part, unless you bring it with you. Zhis only repels minor spirits and weaker vampires… I’m working on something for lesser demons right now.”

Callahan squats over said circles and ghosts a thin hand over the indentations in the wood.

He seems, if not satisfied, then at least mildly pleased with the magical provisions.

"Any work t'do 'round here until y'find me anything I can shoot?"

As though she actually hears him and understands, Brandy gives a loud, disgruntled snort. She sits back on her haunches and rubs at her nose, then gives a jarring sneeze. Clearly, the dust doesn’t sit well with her. Her fluffy head shakes out before she continues to wince up at the lanky rifleman, sizing up him and his coat.

Eberhardt eyes Brandy, then looks back at the newcomer carefully.

“I might have a few in mind, but I have to consult it tomorrow morning with zhe rest of zhe priesthood. I have taken enough risks allowing you to join us on my own accord… which reminds me…” The huntsman might be taller than him, but the priest doubles the size of his back easily, so when he squares his shoulders and straightens his back he looks like a human-sized tank. One hand rises and pokes Callahan’s chest angrily as the German speaks in a hushed, yet tense voice.

“Rule number one if you want to stay here: you only shoot when I say you shoot. And rule number two: you will only shoot what I tell you to shoot.” The blue eyes almost look like Bunsen burners behind the spectacles, about to melt the glass and burn the hunter’s face by staring at his darker pair. “Understood, sir?”

Callahan grimaces at the little furry ball of supernatural damnation getting her pelt in a dusty frizz on the floor. He seems to size her up. She has none of the admittedly rough finesse or malignant superpowered strength of the pack alphas; she's got a bunch of instincts and barely-there experience. Obviously, wherever her pack went, she wasn't with them for long; she's too trusting of other humans, too willing to form new bonds of loyalty.

She's a young un'. Perhaps there is something to be said of the malleability of youth. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, but when they're barely wet behind their ears, it's another matter altogether.

On the spot, his thoughts marks a change. He turns his back to the wolf--something he'd otherwise be damned to do--and meets the angrily expectant blue eyes with calm obedience.

"Cast me no' away from thy presence, an' take no' thy holy spirit from me," he recites, allowing himself another trademark wry grin. "Restore unto me th' joy o' th' salvation; an' uphold me wi' thy free spirit."

Eberhardt’s mouth becomes a tight line, yet his posture relaxes a little and brings his hands up to straighten his leather blazer.

“Good to know we’re on zhe same page…” he grunts, still keeping his stare locked on those eyes, the colour of mahogany.

Callahan’s turned back is a temptatious invitation for mischief. The werewolf puffs and snorts, her nose still ticklish, and attempts to slink her way closer. She tucks her body low to the floor, uncaring that the fur on her chest is picking up all manner of debris. When the coat is not more than a hair’s distance from her face, she sharply clamps her teeth around it and begins to tug with great feverence.

"Wh--!" Callahan gasps, teetering on one foot from the sudden pull.

Brandy gives another firm yank, determined to have the coat for herself.

“Brandy, NO!” Eberhardt, about to send the whole Universe and creation to hell just for one second of peace, stomps forwards and grabs the werewolf by the scruff of the neck to pull her away from Callahan. “Himmeldonnerwetter… are we all suicidal today?!”

She lets out a loud, displeased bark of a sound, her doggish limbs flailing at the air. It doesn’t take long for her to start growling, the guttural sound erupting from her throat as her eyes remain fixated on the hunter, sharp and menacing.

Callahan whips around, murder in his eyes.

"Imeacht gan teacht ort!" he snarls and lifts the flat of his boot to stomp the bristling werewolf in the snout, sending her rolling on her tail out the doorway to the damp grass.

Before the priest can bellow thunder and lighting, the huntsman slams the door shut on the wolf's arse.

A mighty thump soon follows, no doubt the sound of her slamming her body up against the hardwood. It repeats - thump, thump - until she tires of her lack of progress, taking to the windows instead. Cumbersome claws rake down the panes, marring the glass with thick scratches that peels the lead from the frames.

Hands up on his head, covering both his ears and forehead, Eberhardt’s face contorts with fury.

“For fuck’s sake! Stop, you two!” he exclaims and runs towards the window before the werewolf breaks it.

Callahan raises his hands in a 'fuck you I'm not doing anything' gesture and instead steps aside.

Brandy, upon seeing the priest’s face past the cracked glass, mashes her face up against the window pane and snorts a series of quick, disgruntled pants. The glass fogs up around her like a vignette, but it’s clear to see the look of confusion and betrayal that she bores at him with.

Eberhardt quickly opens the window enough for Brandy to come back in, but blocks her way before she can jump inside.

“Brandy, you can’t behave like a rabid beast! I already have to deal with zhis asshole here, so don’t make things more difficult, Schatz…”

She barely waits for him to crack the window open a fraction before she’s pushing her head through the gap, claws curling and digging into the wooden frame. Her ears stand on end and she weaves from side to side, trying her best to see the wiry man past Eberhardt’s heavy set girth. When she manages to lock eyes on him, the ears pin back sharply and she huffs prominently. Though the priest’s words vaguely register, they fail to make any connection with her, far too absorbed in her target.

Callahan simply snorts dismissively at the slit of fur rounding Eberhart's fat arse, then shoves his hands into the lint-filled depths of his pockets.

Eberhardt’s brow knots and his face becomes stone-firm serious.

“If you don’t behave you will have to wait outside until I’m done here, Brandy Brown, and I mean it!”

The sound of her name, though meaningless and obscure in her current state, manages to catch the she-hound’s attention. She snaps her eyes back around to the older man, sniffing loudly as she attempts to judge his tone and expression. He doesn’t look to be in a jesting mood. Not fully comprehending the demand, she remains half hoisted in the window, awaiting some kind of sign of approval. Or, disapproval. The later seems more likely, in her mind.

With one very angry hand the priest points at the corner that is furthest away from Callahan and talks sternly at the werewolf, not breaking eye contact at any point.

“I want you to come in here and sit down in zhat corner, and stay zhere until I’m done with Herr Callahan here, and zhen we can leave, alright, Brandy?”

"Suppose she's housebroken then?" Callahan adds, still not being helpful in the least.

“Shut up, Callahan.”

She follows the line of his digit after blinking at the stubby finger tip for a moment, then proceeds to crawl through the window space, slinking over to the corner of banishment and shame.

After the werewolf crosses the room in front of him the German relaxes just a bit and sighs.

“You lot are going to give me a heart attack tonight…” he exales and turns around to face the hunter. “I’m sorry for your coat.”

"It's a sorry coat. No use worryin'."

Eberhardt eyes the sitting werewolf, then shakes his head.

“Alright, so… back to what we were saying…” he grouses and walks around the main room. “You can use the stove in zhe corner to warm the place, zhere is only one room more anyway so it will be easy to keep it heated.”

Callahan nods. The simplicity of the hovel is a godsend. He only spent time inside for sleeping off hangovers (now a much begrudged thing of the past) or resting from hunts. Housekeeping's easier the less house there were to keep.

"Can I live off th' forest?" he asks. "Or did ye have somethin' fer me t'do between not bein' allowed t'shoot werebeasts?"

Brandy grunts soundly, her ears burning.

“You could… however zhe town is only half an hour away by foot and zhe local products are decent. Better leave zhe forest in peace for now...” as he speaks his cigar burns the packed leaves turning them to ash, which eventually falls on the wooden floor of the almost empty room. “However… you should rest your wounds before we talk about giving you work to do, or you won’t last two days in one piece.”

"I gotta do somethin'," Callahan insists. "Sittin' down makes yer arse go red, yer head go daft. I cannae lie in bed, jus' polishin' me rifle all day, Father."

Somehow, Brandy ends up around Eberhardt’s boots and sticks her tongue out to lick the fallen ash pile.

“Give me a couple of days to sort things out. I have to talk to zhe rest of zhe clergy and convince zhem zhat having you here is a good idea…” Eberhardt then notices Brandy licking the floor next to him and makes a huge effort not to roll his eyes and send everything to Hell. “Please, stay here, rest and I promise you we will look something for you as soon as possible, Callahan.”

The lanky man manages an unsatisfied grunt, crossing his arms.

Eberhardt brings his hand up and rubs at the bridge of his nose. It has been a long, tedious night.

“Look… I’m taking a huge risk by having you here without a consensus. I have some drugs and ointments zhat will help you recover much faster… but you have to stay calm and not shoot anyone, understood?”

Callahan's face softens a little; like a pear going rotten.

"I unnerstan' Father. I do. I promise I'll be shootin' blanks in here, a'ight?"

Finally some relief shows on the priest features and allows himself to readjust his glasses.

“Danke. I will do all I can…” he mumbles and looks down to see what Brandy is doing now to the floor.

The ash pile has been, successfully, snarfed into non-existence. Well, save for the stuff that she has managed to get all around her mouth, which she attempts to lick off. She glances up at Eberhardt, feeling his watchful gaze.

The sentence that can best describes the German’s expression would be something along the line of ‘I don’t know what I am going to do with you.’

He reaches down and pats the ash away from her mouth, not even flinching at the sight of the knife-sharp teeth.

“Zhere are blankets and more basic things in zhe cupboard behind me, if you need zhem. I think it’s time to leave you in your new home,” he says, still talking to Callahan.

"An' take your little mutt to hers."

Brandy attempts a less than half-hearted nip at the priest’s hand, still quite perturbed by all his scolding. It isn’t her fault this scrawny pole of a character dislikes her. At least, that’s what she convinces herself of.

“Ja, ja… we won’t bother you anymore,” Eberhardt sighs and straightens up. “If zhere’s any emergency or you need something you can find me at zhe church. It’s my turn to watch zhe grounds tonight.”

Callahan is about to say something caustic, but a sneaky shot of pain through his side hushes his mouth. He barely manages a suppressed groan and rudely waves the priest out, wanting to be alone with his weakness and wounded pride.

The German simply nods and pats Brandy’s shoulder.

“Come on, Schatz, let’s go and find zhe others…” he says, a little more cheerfully.

The small huddle of fur and teeth responds to the pet with a puff of breath, picking herself up from where she’d sat to trot along with him on all fours. A final, judgemental glance is cast back in Callahan’s direction, as though she’s sizing him up one last time before she goes.

Callahan shows his teeth at her. He knows how to talk back to her kind.

The door slams definitively behind the werewolf.

The priest brings a hand up to rub at his eyes and temples, clearly about to explode and about to make everyone mute with a spell if his buttons are pushed once more.

“Scheisse…”

Brandy leaps up onto the cobble wall and waits for Eberhardt to move through the gate, squatting down like a spring, ready to pounce on his back.

Eberhardt breathes deeply in the fresh, humid air of the night. Pushing the newcomer to one side in his mind he gazes at Brandy. He feels the corners of his mouth curving a little.

“Let’s go, Brandy,” he says, throws the rest of the cigar to the floor and extinguishes it with the heel of his boot as he walks towards the gate.

The werewolf springs eagerly onto his shoulders and quickly finds purchase, tucking her claws and chin over his hair. Her eyes cast up to the inky blackness above them, watching little glimmers of light - like pin holes on a dark canvas - flicker and shimmer. She wonders, idly, if she can catch one.

Later, she would eat some fireflies.