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[Harlequin]

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I’ve never killed a child, and I don’t intend to start now.

“Gray, Gray, Gray…” Harlequin paused and leaned back, tilting her head and examining her work. A charcoal likeness of the boy graced a sheet of bleached parchment on an easel near the fireplace. The light was usually good in her cabin, but the hour had grown late – quite late. The mockingbirds were already warbling outside. The lantern would have to do. The sketch wouldn’t wait.

It was still hard to believe the child was only twelve. Just to look at him, she’d never have doubted it. But he was wise far beyond his years – far beyond her own. She felt a gnawing in her gut. She’d said too much, and she knew it. But he had the knowledge she wanted. He knew all that she sought, and so much more. It was too tempting to pass up.

And he’d have guessed far too much. Of course he had – she’d found him too easy to confide in. She stared at the boy’s image on the parchment for a few moments, avoiding the uneasy thoughts that would invariably creep in again. She wondered if someday one of these new arrows he described of would be his own undoing.

Quinn shook her head and rolled the parchment, sliding it into a pack with numerous other rolls, other sketches of those she wanted to remember, or those she couldn’t forget.

She sat down at her dressing table and straightened a line of tubes containing makeup. Some black, some white, some gray. A stick of red stain, and a tiny, hand-bound paintbrush, well-worn, but immaculately cleaned. She made sure they were perfectly aligned and loosed her long black hair to cascade down over her back and shoulders. Slowly, deliberately, almost ceremoniously, she took a ball of clean cotton from a jar of cleaning spirits and watched in the mirror as she removed the makeup from her face. When the last traces were gone, she was plain and pale. She plaited her hair into a single braid, and dove onto the bed.

For the last few moments before slumber claimed her, she watched the window at the head of her bed, hugging her pillow beneath her chin. There was nothing outside but darkness, and so she saw only a black reflection of herself, silhouetted against the glowing hearth behind her. The same doubts and worries fretted at the edge of her consciousness, but she pushed them out and allowed the weight of sleep to settled into her eyes. She'd make her decision tomorrow.
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Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar

[Gray Smythe]

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Essays flew through the air, books following suit. It was an uncharacteristic clamor for Gray to fashion, though he searched desperately now through his father's horrid cataloging system. He knew it was there, somewhere lost amongst the thousands of books, tomes, and treatises.

He stopped searching for a moment and scrunched his face in mild determination. He was a man of science and learning! Surely he could device the perplexing pattern to his father's own insanity. He need only determine where 'L' and 'W' may sit.

Another hour had passed before he managed to surmise the code behind the organization of the library. The most unorganized equation he had ever seen, yet still enough to lead him to his goal.

The Werewolf Hunter; An Exhibition of Tactics and Psychology

He had never read it, though the book had caught his eye before. Thus he set now, putting his other work aside to read through the thick reference work.

---

An easy read for him, and he had finished it quickly for his age... after only five hours he had finished it quickly for any age. Through this book, he found the one passage he had hoped existed. A small insight into the mind of the woman that had occupied his all evening.

"Zealotry or martyrdom, patriotism or vengeance, toxic discord or harmonious balance. For whatever reason a hunter may claim to raise banner and ride, there is one primary driving motivation behind almost any hunter's crusade and hatred of these beasts. Trauma. It is through traumatic experiences that our greatest wounds are made and, without vindication, fester. The festering of these wounds can eat at the mind and the heart of a hunter for many years before they choose to raise banner and fight, and it is by then they posses a poisoned mind, with but one goal vigilant in their thoughts. Extinction."
-Perriam Wallas Smythe

With a slow nod, Gray transcribed the note from the book his grandfather had penned and set down at his desk. His schematics sat, neatly laid out, awaiting his thoughts and pen. Whatever may be her reason, whatever happens her cause, he would have to be careful with her. Yet still she fascinated him...
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SCIENCE!!