Caged Bird Act 7

Dove ended up leaving the Tearooms feeling fuzzy. She had reassured the twins she was staying no further than ten minutes away and was fine to walk back (blooming into Mrs Chevey's inn wasn’t possible, security measures and all). It was the best interaction she’d had in weeks, she thought. But the conversation from earlier, and the sketchy figures outside swirled in her mind. She still felt the buzz of fire seep through her veins, and something else too. Something darker. How did she know it was darker? Things were changing for Dove, and not just on the outside.

As the night slowly crept in, she decided to visit her favourite dusty little bookshop, Buttonquail, a small cosy corner of the world where she felt at home. Which was odd, as Dove rarely felt at home. Just like Mooney’s, there were other trinkets for sale. Usually in Mookaite, there was more to what met the eye. Dove smiled at the shop owner, a pretty lady with the aroma of orchids. There were flytraps strung from her ceiling. Dove had heard she was a shapeshifter, often taking the form of a sleek fox. She smiled back, and Dove glided through the shelves. They often sold Ornerie books here, usually on magical creatures, as most wizards (the non-bigoted) thought it interesting to view this world through a Ornerie's eyes. There was a little postage section, too. This was new. It helped Dove, though. If she needed anyone to get in contact with her, which was unlikely, Violet could use her magic to send it privately to the right address. Sparkling bottles of potions lined the top shelves, green, purple, red, white. Dove had glimpsed the little inscriptions before, telling her they were potions for all different uses. Confuddling, temporary paralysis, blindness, and radioactive powers. Dove thought they were cool. Some had been removed from shelves in regular potion shops, as they were conceived to be immoral to use. Of course, Dove assumed they were here simply for display, to fit in with the theme of some of the darker books sold near the back. Horror and monster tales always caught her attention. She picked up a scarlet tome, adorned with a stitched rose. Dove was a lover of the Romantics. The witch behind the counter beamed at her, and Dove thought her lovely eyes looked like stars. She made a note to come back to this shop, feeling a strong urge to talk to the witch a lot more. The coldness of the air pinched her face as she continued to walk. Dove spent another half hour losing herself in every shop row she could find. She passed a tall man with incredibly long, thick brown hair and looked back. But he’d gone. She caught herself trying to distract her own mind with familiar comforts, such as Mookaite’s treats. As the sky darkened, she wandered into a crevice of sleepy bars which were magical-only. Dove could treat herself to a warm drink right now, but the whole Gavin experience threw her off. What if there were other creeps in there, to get her alone? What if they’re somehow in there, or they know where she’s staying? Suddenly she decided to head back to the inn, away from the streets or places where people would know her. Dove rounded the little corner that led to a small path which paved the way back to Mrs Chevey's inn.

And the world exploded.

Glass shattered and people screamed. The air was thick and smoky.

Dove lifted her head off the floor, dizzy and trying to process what just happened. Her ears were ringing. The small witch had been blasted into the shadows of the hidden path. She stood up quickly, trying to find the source.

There they stood. Right outside Foxtrotter’s. About twenty paces from where Dove was.

The windows were destroyed, and small fires laced the floor. Three men, two of which, had their faces hidden by hoods. Foxtrotter himself was being dragged by one of them. The tallest of them all.

And ‘man’ was a funny way of describing him.

Dove knew those clothes. Dove knew the lightning on his skin. She knew the long, black hair that fell on his back, coated in black fur, she knew his bearded and scarred face.

And he looked right at her. With blood red eyes.

There he was. The stranger from last night.

The picture on the wall next to him fluttered from the wind.

JAGGAR THORNE

WANTED WEREWOLF

It was him.