- T̶̚͜o̵̘̩̱͐́̓ṙ̶̥͎̿̏ơ̸̯̚n̶͖̈́̍̿t̷͖̲͇̑̀ọ̶̾͐̉,̴̘͓̺͊ ̴̮̿2̶̝̃̚̚0̶̧̣̄͠1̵̢̹̒2̵̹̰̳̚ -

A thick fog covers the once bustling, now wrecked, street. The corpses of innocents, scattered as far as one could see (which wasn’t that much, fog and all). The blood is fresh, but the smell says otherwise, a rotting stench that makes breathing a horrible experience in its own. A young boy runs through the street. Whatever color his clothes once were, now they were only gray, from the dust, and red, from the blood. His name is Jonathan, and on his back, he carries the lifeless body of his boyfriend. He tries to scream, but his voice fails him. He keeps running, but he knows he’ll soon lose his strength. The creature is still chasing, he can hear it approaching. A large mass of flesh, in the vague shape of a bull, except its “hooves” resemble human hands, and what should be the mouth of an herbivore is instead a gaping maw of jagged teeth.

Jonathan fell to his knees. His last bit of strength, gone. Such a young boy, so much to do, so many people to meet. And yet, a voice calls for him. Somewhere close, he hopes. But no one’s around. And yet the voice continues. Is it the beast? The beast that finally caught up to its prey? Can it mimic human voices too? No, the voice comes from some place else. Some time else. Jonathan hears it closer whenever he closes his eyes. And now, he’s ready to go. One last embrace to the body he carried all this time. He closes his eyes, and the world goes silent.

- Somewhere above the Irish Sea, 2020 –

Jon wakes up, sweating profusely. What a horrifying nightmare this was. Before he has time to remember where he is, the voice that called for him in his sleep makes itself heard again.

– Jon! You finally woke up, sleepy head. We’re half-way there, kiddo. Can’t have you sleep the whole trip.

Jon turned his head to see Allain, clearly relishing on having ruined what he thinks was a perfect nap. Across from them sits a stoic, suited up secret agent from the Round Table. A quick glance from the window reveals a large body of water. And one last deep breath brings him fully back to conscience. They are currently in Lord Cromwell’s personal helicopter, an AgustaWestland AW109S Grand, painted black, and emblazoned with the Round Table emblem on both its sides.

– Hey, are you ok? – Allain asks, noticing the somber look in Jon’s face and the still accelerated heartbeat.

– I’m fine, I’m fine. Thanks for, uh, waking me up. – Jon replies, holding back the discomfort of what he just experienced.

– Are you having those nightmares again?

– Never stopped having them, actually. Although now they’re not… accurate. I was carrying Kyle, and he was dead. Well, everyone was dead… – Jon interrupts himself. Doesn’t matter how long ago this was, it still hurts him to this day.

– In how long haven’t you spoken to him? Do you even know where he is?

– Since he woke up from the coma, 8 years ago. Since he told me to go away. Since… you saved us, and told me to join Wolfheim. And no, I don’t know where he is. – Jon looked away.

– You’re lying. – Allain took on a stern look, almost like a father scolding his son for being unnecessarily dishonest. He’d rarely been this serious with Jon, but every time, he was right. He shifts into a more comfortable position again, and says, with a half-smile – You know, we still have roughly 50 minutes to go, I can and will wait for a proper answer.

– I found out recently. I didn’t want to tell, because I used Wolfheim resources to find him. I’m not sure if I should go see him. He probably hates me, and I wouldn’t hold it against him, really.

– Gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think you should see this. – the agent utters, while turning his tablet to face the two men.

On the screen, a live broadcast by a local news channel reported an alleged act of vandalism to Duckett’s Grove, the very same site they were headed towards. The reporter noted the history of this great house, as well as the apparent extensive damage done to the structure. It looked as if they weren’t leaving any time soon, rather it was going to be one of those day-long reports, where every 10 to 20 minutes the news anchors check in with the reporters to see what else is new on site. The three men now thought to themselves what to do, and for a good while, no one was having any brilliant ideas. The relative silence, since the tablet was still tuned on the news channel, was interrupted by the pilot, noting that they were 30 minutes away from the destination.

– None of this makes sense. – Jon is the first to break his silence – They should’ve reported this when the attacks first happened. Why are they here now?

– It’s almost as if someone knew we were coming, and deliberately alerted the media, so as to create some sort of obstacle. – the agent adds.

– Come on, don’t be silly. – Allain cuts in – That would mean that the Round Table is compromised. You do know the consequences of such event, right?

– Well, yes. I was just proposing… I didn’t… – the agent can’t take his sentence to the end, worried about the implications of what he just said.

– I’m just kidding, relax. Besides, it’s not like Arthur and Merlin wouldn’t be able to deal with that conundrum. You have nothing to fear. – Allain spoke to the agent in the same tone he used with the Knights, as if letting a certain someone bleed into his own personality every now and then. Someone that was, nonetheless, still himself.

Still needing to kill some time, the three check their gear, as well as keep paying attention to the news reports, hoping that, when they arrive, the anchors will be going over some stolen sheep, or just discussing the weather, so as to give them a window of opportunity to land and enter the building undetected. Allain fidgets with a golden, rather worn-out coin, while Jon rummages through his bag making sure he brought his notebook, and maybe a pencil, to write whatever they find. The agent, without a bag to rummage through, simply looks out the window. As he turns, Allain catches a glimpse of his eyes. A solid hazel color, an unnoticeable pupil, or perhaps no pupil at all, and an absolute absence of reflections. Hidden behind the dark sunglasses, no one would notice, but thanks to this moment where everyone had their guard down, Allain was made aware of the agent’s true nature.

– “These motherfuckers” – Allain thought to himself – “using golems as agents. Now I wonder, did Will send this one in particular with us because he doesn’t trust me, or is this a generalized shit they have going on? Questions for later, I guess…”

Jon finally put the bag down, having grabbed a book that was inside, and opened it on page 1, intending on finally starting to read Dracula like Allain had suggested. Fate had other plans however, as sudden turbulence quickly knocked the book out of his hands. He felt tempted to remark on his apparent bad luck, but in light of the conversation they just had, decided not to.

– You know, agent, we’ve been sharing a cabin for over an hour and I still don’t know your name. – Allain remarks – Mind sharing?

– Well, officially, I’m to be addressed as Agent Lowe, but you guys can call me Jude. – Jude replies, with an awkward smile.

– “Oh, these fuckers aren’t even being subtle about it! Jude Lowe?! As in, Judah Loew, Maharal of Prague?!” – Allain thinks to himself, while replying – Nice to properly meet you, Jude. I’d introduce us, but you already know who we are.

Ireland finally welcomes our weary travelers, and the stress increases tenfold. They are but 15 minutes away from landing, and the news broadcast just changed back to the field reporter. Allain grasps his coin, Jon picks up his bag, and Jude straightens his tie. Curiosity finally gets the better of him, and so, Jude asks Allain.

– So, what’s the coin for?

– Oh, this old thing? – the sadistic smile of you-know-who creeped its way into Allain’s lips – Just… an obol, for the boatman. You never know when a divine bribe might be needed.