June 4, 1764 - Margeride Mountains

The ground had dried sufficiently not to trap the wagon wheels along the bogged-down wooded paths. After the first searches in the region, the two hunters had found only vague traces, nothing on which they could really set a job.

They decided to continue the pilgrimage.

They had gone through graveyards, churches, slaughterhouses, and isolated farms, stopping to question as many villagers as possible.

Just quiet people who hoped never to meet infamous men like them. They had shadows on their faces and tired eyes. It seemed the whole county hadn't slept in days.

Nobody, however, spoke.

- No one ever makes our life easier. -

- You know, nobody loves foreigners. -

There was a warm wind in the air. The thunderstorms had passed and the night would let its stars be admired.

Fantin stared thoughtfully at the sky.

- I'd give a damn about the moon, - René anticipated.

- What do you mean? -

- If it were a lupus hominarius, there would have been deaths all over the place. Nothing fucking happened here. -

- An elderly werewolf can control himself. -

- There are no elderly werewolves in this part of the world. Not anymore. -

- If you say so. -

- Let's light the fire. At nightfall, we'll stop here. -

The wood on the ground was not suitable for a makeshift camp. Too wet to ignite, it would only make a column of smoke that would make them visible from miles away.

The crates containing the provisions, on the other hand, would have served the purpose.

Taking care to empty the wine supplies first, they lit a brazier, while the mist fell silently between the gnarled fingers of the beech and hornbeams.

On several occasions, Fantin pricked up his ears, summoned by a restless Esperance. In the mountains of Gévaudan, dangerous beasts were rarely encountered. At most, a few wolves.

The plateaus were dotted with towns, connected by the royal road that continued to Mende. Along the way, it was easy to meet tired travelers, intent on dragging themselves for kilometers between one inhabited center and another. On more than an occasion, mysterious incidents occurred for which an unfortunate man would not return to his home.

Shit happens.

Recently, with unusual frequency.

Fantin and René had settled off the track, covered by the first brush. They had left behind days of toil, only interspersed with rape and revelry. They didn't draw a blank, they were slowly losing momentum. The scent of rest days was around the corner, yet so far away.

At first, in the already fallen fog, they heard the shod hooves of a horse. Esperance was calm and tied up. Fantin caressed her.

- Someone is coming. -

René had found some chewing tobacco in Chanac, even though he had already finished it. He had been savoring the last piece for many hours now.

He grabbed the rifle and, eyes without light, took up position on the side of the road. The muffled picture of the wilderness was oppressive even for an ambush. White darkness with predatory coils, friends of no one.

A figure slowly emerged from the white wall, clearer from step to step. Riding a bay ardennese, a man wrapped in a thick cloak held two large panniers overhanging his saddle. What they contained was hard to tell.

Before the wayfarer passed on, René showed himself at the side of the road.

- Stop! -

Pulling the bridle, the horse stopped. From under the broad hat, a bristly beard framed a square chin. The eyes, hidden, stared.

- Are you from Mende? - René asked, placing the barrel of the gun on his shoulder.

- It is in that direction that the road leads, stranger. -

- Voices have been heard. - Trying a banal approach, René kept the stranger in check.

- If you are directing your steps there, I advise you to continue further, quickly and without asking questions. -

- Is that advice? - he answered roughly.

- No. A warning. - The man paused to release a lump in his throat. Then he was brutally sincere: - The cows are so frightened that they can't produce any more milk. Horses run away from their pens during the night. The dogs flee into the woods and never return. There is something moving in the mountains. -

- But there have been no accidents yet, it seems. -

- The crafty crow leaves before the storm starts, not after. -

René spat a patch of black tobacco on the ground.

- Wise decision. -

The ease with which he pointed the gun at the traveler was unreal. He pulled the trigger as if it were the banalest gesture, as numb as last year's freezing winter.

A bang and the man fell off his horse.

René grabbed the bridle firmly, to prevent the nag from running away with all the provisions and possessions of his old master.

- You were right, then. - Fantin made up his mind to appear only to move the dead body lying on the road among the bushes. - It's not a werewolf. Those don't scare the animals for fun. -

- It's a native, - René said dryly, rummaging through the wicker baskets.

- Already. Very likely. So much the better for us anyway. - By slitting the throat and undressing the traveler, Fantin made sure he never got up to haunt them, in one lifetime or another. - They are practically harmless. -

- Finding it won't be easy, though. -

- Maybe not this time. It is alone and agitated if it calls the beasts. It wants something. Try to get these people to move, to screw them up to make them migrate. -

- Do you say it will be wandering in the countryside? -

- I say we look for the largest farm around Mende and take a post. With any luck, we'll spot it. -

Fantin nodded. A clean job.