[Ohio/Pennsylvania borderlands. October 29th-30th, 1866]

The expedition rolled through the Ohio countryside without incident. The foothills of Appallachia did not hinder them, and they spoke pleasantly about nothing in particular. There were no probing questions on this sojourn of the journey, no attempts at coming to a deeper understanding. It was a conversation of comfort, the rest would come later.

Dupont found himself in a stagecoach seated next to Inola, across from Beckham and Romy. Karsten had insisted on riding next to the driver, Henry rifle laid across his lap in the open. When they passed pedestrians or westbound coaches, he used the weapon to offer a friendly and relaxed salute.

Dupont found this posturing ridiculous, despite Madame Posat's warning. The days of highwaymen were a hundred years gone. They obviously had little to worry about. He supposed that a blunt instrument like Karsten would at least take his security position seriously, which would be useful in the lawlessness of postwar Europe.

The archaeologist scratched away with a charcoal pen in a notebook, sketching the peculiar contours of Romy's face and jaw. There was something he wasn't getting, and several sheets had already been filled and rejected. He was trying again when he felt a nudge from Inola. A pang of jealousy ran through Dupont as he laid his eyes on a sketch of Beckham that looked nearly ready to climb out of the page and ask him for beer money. "You have an eye for realism," Aaron noted with sincerity.

"I'm working as a cartographer," Inola answered with a sheepish smile. "I went to Paris to learn to be an artist, but it doesn't pay the bills. It would seem that an eye for realistic art translates well to mapmaking, and I've attracted the attention of a few interested parties. Madame Posat included, it would seem."

"It would seem. I wasn't formally trained, do you think that you can tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

Inola pressed next to him and looked at the face of Romy sketched on the page. The pale woman's pose and aspect was contemplative and serene, gazing silently out the window at the passing country. Inola looked between the subject and the study several times before licking her finger and making a few slight corrections by smudging and scraping. The overall effects of her corrections added a tension to Romy's expression, less like a bored traveler experiencing the ennui of a familiar countryside and more like a coiled snake ready to release a venomous bite. Dupont looked between the picture and their companion and realized that he had indeed entirely misread her posture.

"That is amazing," he exclaimed, a little too loudly. Havek and Palmer both looked at him quizzically. Aaron froze, suddenly unsure the woman would appreciate his drawing her without her permission.

Inola flipped her artbook over and showed her picture of Palmer with a grin. The digger looked at it and guffawed. "That's quite good!" he shouted, to Romy's obvious annoyance. "Like a mirror! You have a talent!"

The artbooks remained active, now including all four companions until dusk. Palmer was the first to sleep, leaning his head in the corner and simply going still aside from the occasional snore. Inola joined soon after, her chin drifting slowly onto her collarbone until she too was gone. Aaron gently pushed her shoulder until she was also propped into the corner. He looked to Romy, who showed no signs of sleep.

"Aren't you tired? We've been traveling all day. I imagine even Karsten up there is feeling the bite of fatigue."

"Not yet," Romy answered with a strangely mirthless smile. "I'll sleep once we've reached the next carriage house. I didn't expect trouble in Ohio, but now that we're in Pennsylvania we're in less friendly territory."

Aaron cocked an eyebrow at her. "The war is over. There aren't even deserters left at this point. Law and order has been restored."

"That keeps some of our opponents down, yes, but others thrive on the calm after the violence."

"Can you tell me about these 'opponents', as you call them?"

"Yes."

Aaron waited for several moments before realizing that she wasn't going to elaborate. "Will you?"

"No."

Dupont cringed. He had known that was going to be the answer. "Why not?"

"Because it wouldn't matter," she answered in a tired voice. "You won't believe me until you've seen for yourself."

"Perhaps I'm not so stubborn or dense as you believe," Aaron insisted.

"Alright," Romy gave in, her voice changing to a mocking tone as if narrating a carnival game, "What would you like to know, Mister Dupont?"

"Well... who are they?"

"A little bit of everything. Be more specific."

Aaron squinted at her. "What about those here in Pennsylvania. You said that we were in 'enemy territory' or what have you. Who's here in Pennsylvania?"

"I said 'unfriendly' territory," she corrected. "At least I hope they don't know about the spear. That would leave us in a rather sorry state."

"Who?"

"In Pennsylvania? Werewolves and Rubezahlen. If we're lucky, they're too busy fighting each other to notice us passing through."

"Werewo- people travel through Pennsylvania constantly. I don't know what a Rubezahlen is but I have heard of werewolves, and they don't exist."

"Why do you think that?" Romy smiled sweetly at him, the way a cat smiles after it's just killed a mouse.

"Because no-one has ever seen one," Dupont answered at once.

"I wonder where the word 'werewolf' comes from, and all of the people who claim to have seen one."

"Folklore!"

"Like giants?" Romy's rhetorical trap snapped shut. Dupont gaped at her. "A man sees a werewolf, he's an imbecil, because nobody has ever actually seen a werewolf. Then a young woman sees the beast, and is saved by her bulls. But she must have mistaken a wolf for a monster, because nobody has ever actually seen a werewolf. And then a man's house is searched, gnawed bodies in his basement. He confesses to changing into a werewolf under certain conditons and he's deemed a madman, because nobody has ever actually seen a werewolf. I know your work, Aaron Dupont, and I know that you know better than this."

"They... can't be real."

"Let's hope you're never forced to admit that you were wrong," Romy mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear.

They rode further in silence, which was eventually broken by Aaron. "Let's say you're right. There are werewolves in Pennsylvania. Why would we be in more danger than any other traveler?"

"Our benefactor, Madam Posat. She is of their world, and not insignificant in it at that. Her moves are rarely unwatched, and traveling with such a small escort may make her, and us, a more appealing target. They won't really care what she's up to, simply that she is up to something and traveling light to do it."

"Should I be armed?"

"Yes."

"Can you give me a gun?"

"Yes."

After a long silence, he huffed. "Will you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You need practice," she answered in a mockingly patient tone. "I'm not giving you a gun before I know that you won't shoot your own thumb off."

He wanted to argue, but the night was split by Karsten's rifle, firing three times in rapid succession. To Dupont, this suddenly felt as though he was on a battlefield, and he resisted the urge to wedge himself next to the luggage beneath the seat. 

Romy had her trumpet case open and was pulling out an odd looking weapon; it resembled a rifle except the lever was attached to the stock, which was strangely thick and appeared attached to the rest of the weapon in the same way a lid is attached to a mason jar. A metal tube jutted upward at an angle. She gave the lever a few experimental pumps, which appeared to provide enough resistance to satisfy her, and she prepared to open the door.

Inola and Beckham had jerked awake at the sound of Karsten's weapon and glanced around, fitfully. Beckham drew a small penknife, while Inola clutched her purse. Dupont was strangely relieved that he was not the only apparent full noncombatant in the carriage. 

Romy opened the door and shouted a question at Karsten, who shouted something back. "Scheie," she hissed and whipped her weapon around to the back. It fired, issuing a sharp hiss every time she pulled a trigger. A yelping sound penetrated the sound of the carriage wheels on the road and the horses' escalating clopping. She swore again and threw herself into the passenger space, slamming the door behind her. She was not yet landed before an impact hit the side of the vehicle, rocking it onto two wheels before it fell back down on all four. Karsten's gun fired several more shots, and Dupont heard more yelps in response.

Something hit near the front, almost as if a great weight landed near Karsten. Two more shots rang out and the cab lifted in front when the weight came off of it. Growling in frustration, Romy looked at her three fellow passengers. After some hesitation, she produced a small revolver from her pocket and gave it to Dupont. "If you shoot me," she admonished, "You had better hope I die. You have five shots and every one of them had better remain outside of my body." 

Having duly warned Dupont, she opened the cab door again and looked around. Satisfied that it was safe, she put her hand on the top rack in order to leverage herself up. She recoiled back into the cab and stared at her hand, which was covered in fresh, livid blood. Having hesitated only a moment, she reached back out and this time was undeterred lifting herself out of sight. 

Long moments of silence followed, until Karsten's rifle and Havek's strange weapon could be heard rapidly firing in a sustained burst. A few seconds later, there was another impact on the side, and the coach door was ripped open. All three passengers cowered on the opposite side as an enormous hairy beast with the head of a dog, long, shaggy fur, and a very human yet insane grin. 

Dupont screamed and fired a shot. The trigger was harder to pull than he'd imagined, and the tension in his hand caused his shot to go wide. The beast began scrambling to climb in among them, and Dupont fired again. This time, his bullet pierced the beast's ear. It cackled at him, a terrifying sound, and he froze. It grabbed his leg and yanked him beneath it where it attempted to bite his face. He fired all of is remaining shots point blank at its head, hitting twice. The final bullet had been fired almost by accident as he struggled to keep his grip through the recoil.

The thing reared up backwards, shaking its perforated head in confusion. Then, its head exploded in a cloud of gore, the bullet that had felled him fired from the open door. Leaning into view with his rifle tucked under one arm and the other hand hanging him from the top rack was a blood-covered Karsten, grinning like a fool.

He scrambled back up and out of sight, leaving the three passengers to free Dupont from under the corpse. Their task was made easier but infinitely more unpleasant as the creature's flesh bubbled and melted away. Aaron's clothing was soaked through and he was certain that he'd never get the smell out. When it was all over, he lay under a naked, deformed man amid piles and puddles of stinking material. After some small amount of cajoling, the other two helped Aaron roll the nude corpse aside.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The stagecoach slowed to a stop, and the passengers cautiously disembarked to find themselves at a carriage house, with a small public bunkhouse situated across the road from it. The caretaker took the horses to the stable, trying and failing to be subtle about glancing repeatedly at the space where the driver should have been.

Inola gasped, and Beckham swore almost at the same time. Dupont followed their gaze and found the source of the prodigous amounts of blood coating the top half of the coach; Sitting in that driver's bench with one foot still casually on the bar was the driver's body, from the waist down. Karsten was arguing with Romy, and Dupont jogged over to them.

"She rode off and they chased her. We can't let her get killed like that!" Yeager insisted, gesticulating wildly.

"Following would be foolhardy. Our mission is the safety of the others, she can look after herself."

"There were four of those things. FOUR! What kind of secret weapon would allow her to survive that?"

Romy only gave him a weary smile and wandered into the bunkhouse. After a moment, Karsten followed. Soon, they'd all followed suit, helplessly imagining the small blonde being torn to shreds. 

There were two rooms in the bunkhouse; one designated for men and the other for women. Each had a single line of bunk beds, and Dupont was certain that they were coated in parasites. About thirty minutes later, when everyone was settled, he knocked on the women's door.

Romy's voice answered that he could enter, so he did. To his shock, he found her sitting on her bed, stripped to the waist. A jar of blue liquid contained a single small caliber bullet, and her arm was heavily wrapped in bandages. A crooked needle and some thick string indicated that she'd sewn an injury shut. 

"Is... is that my bullet?" Dupont asked, with some trepidation.

"Yes."

"How?"

"Through the roof of the cab," she answered. A slow, reptilian smile split her features. "And Aaron?"

He almost couldn't respond around the guilty lump in his throat. "Yes?"

"You didn't kill me. Sweet dreams."