Sure enough, the means in the watcher's employ was in the sky.
Fiddling with the stinking feather for a while, Clayton speculated that it must be part of a sorcerer's means.
Legends stated that those mysterious individuals could summon a long-dead creature back to life, viewing the world through its eyes.
He felt elated at this. If the Holy Grail Society indeed hid like a turtle in its shell following the last watcher's death, Clayton would be at his wits' end.
Even though the new watcher seemed more impressive than imagined, his investigation was also made easier.
The observer, if a human being, would undoubtedly carry various smells from interacting with others. But in the case of the observer being a bird, its odor would be fewer-layered, serving to reflect its owner's.
A single plume couldn't allow Clayton to collect enough of its odor. He needed the entire bird.
Hiding behind a bush, Clayton undressed himself and warmed up before shape-shifting.
His muzzle was extended, black hairs spilled out of his pores, his muscles swelled up and spat currents of steam, and from his ankles, his stature shot up.
A werewolf in its true form was no smaller than a horse.
Clayton grabbed the Conqueror in his teeth, his snowy white fangs securing the barrel in place. Then, he got down on all fours and started galloping like a wild beast, his glinting brownish eyes tearing down the dark street like lightning.
At nighttime, hardly anyone, except for an occasional constable, would be out on the streets. Clayton could freely unleash himself.
To ensure that the watcher would not notice him, his route was across two streets from the hackney carriage's. The deserted lanes of his special choosing ruled out the possibility of running smack into a constable.
Roaring wind brushed past Clayton's cheeks, his ebony-dark hair, and his pointed ears at full sail.
The sights to both sides had almost converged in the middle of his vision.
A werewolf was nothing like a real wolf. Clayton's speed matched that of a warhorse, whereas his stamina was superior. He was confident in arriving in St. Melon Parish ahead of the horse-drawn carriage in his employ.
As long as he could reach the mechanical clock tower near the Chief Constabulary in advance, he would be able to find out who was trailing him.
.........
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle...
Bending down, Joe Mani picked a spare bullet off the floor, stuffing it back into his pocket.
Then, he sat back down on the bed and leaned against the wall, gazing out the window of the humble room.
The single room was all he had rented, small and dilapidated, with a leaky ceiling, but it was probably, for the time being, the best place he could ask for.
His face remained disguised as during the day. Each time he disguised his face, it would cost him over an hour, along with wax and glue. So, he didn't bother to remove the makeup even during the night.
The cons were evident.
Scratching his face, he planned to buy some mentholated ointment for heat rash immediately after Clayton had eliminated the Holy Grail Society.
Fiddling with the revolver, he casually pulled out its cylinder then slammed it back into place.
Actually, Joe barely knew his way around a gun.
But Clayton's reminder yesterday had instilled fear in him. Thus, even during a shower and sleep, he would keep the revolver close by.
"Look out for the sky."
Joe felt creepy.
It sounded practical that the Holy Grail Society had trained birds to track people, the only explanation that he had worked out. But how could it be like that?
He had returned to Sasha City by train.
Even if they had managed to keep up with the train, could those whose brains were no larger than his fingertip actually be able to spot his among a sea of heads from above?
It was too far-fetched.
A cold shiver ran up Joe's spine. He pressed the cylinder back the final time.
He decided to turn in for the night.
Once asleep, he could rid his mind of these disturbing thoughts.
He pulled a blanket over himself and placed the pistol beneath his pillow, lying with his face to the wall. Then, taking out his pocket watch, he began a silent countdown.
The alarm bell in St. Melon Parish, every quarter of an hour, would chime. In the quiet night, its ringing sounded more pronounced.
He hadn't been here long and was thus unaccustomed to such noise. He had to be right on time every day. Only after the peal, especially at the full hour, could he fall asleep without worries. Otherwise, it would dissipate all his sleepiness.
He had developed this habit over the past four days.
The pocket watch's hour hand was drawing near nine. The moment the minute hand came full circle, a familiar booming toll floated in from the window.
Clang---Clang--Clang---...
Bang!
The window close to Joe Mani's head burst into shards, scattering across the floor. Through the broken window, a strange thing came fluttering in, making tender, animate squirms while emitting a sickening stench.
Someone was shooting this way!
He instantly sat up and grabbed hold of his revolver, alertly aiming it at the window. Then, squatting down, he duck-walked over with his back to the wall.
Above, the moonbeam pierced through the window, allowing Joe to see clearly the object that had fallen into the room.
It was an ocher-colored wing.
Its decaying odor assailed Joe's nostrils. At the tip of the wing, a miniature human hand was repeatedly clasping and relaxing.
All the strength having drained from Joe's legs, he collapsed to the ground on his backside. He aimed his pistol at the wing with a shuddering hand.
"What... the hell is this!!!"
............
Three minutes earlier.
Clayton was lying prone atop the clock tower, in his true form. He held the long rifle, its barrel wrapped in black cloth, with his robust werewolf arms, aiming it at the far end of the street.
Darkness enshrouded his figure.
He watched as the horse-drawn carriage in his employ emerged on the horizon, then slowly proceeded before entering Mercy Street.
Simultaneously, a shadowy form was quietly lurking above it.
He had surmised that it was an owl or a red-footed falcon, yet the silhouette was almost human-sized.
It had an eagle's body but a woman's head with disheveled long hair.
Because she was flying at a similar height as the clock tower's rooftop, its rotten stench was carried in the rushing wind all the way to Clayton.
It's a harpy.
He didn't have to be well-versed in the occult world to recognize it.
One of his grammar school textbooks included excerpts from mythological epics. Harpy, as a villain of a certain chapter, had a dedicated illustration.
Derived from a deity, it was cursed to an eternal life, proficient in witchcraft, and prone to lies...
During King Liaexus's voyage to the Giant Island, the sailors, mesmerized by a harpy, steered the ship off course. They ended up going astray on the boundless ocean. The sailors didn't wake up until Liaexus, coming back to his senses, shot a deadly copper-pointed arrow at it.
In short, it was a species that had tricked an ancient king!
By comparison, a monster like a werewolf appeared more like a next-door wolfhound.
"The Perpetually Rotting Daughter of a Deity..."
Clenching his teeth, Clayton moved agilely on the rooftop to a better spot for shooting. Then, he aimed the rifle at the fluttering, shadowy form through the scope, waiting for the bell chime.
Though a harpy, it couldn't withstand a bullet.
He had read the treatise 'Naturalism' by a renowned biologist, which stated that any flying species had jettisoned a lot of their weight over the course of evolution. Easily broken bones were a price they had to pay for the ability of flight.
They were more vulnerable than land-based creatures in the same weight class.
He had no idea what special ability the harpy possessed, but was sure that he would be unaffected from across a distance of over a hundred meters.
The horse carriage pulled over at 214 Mercy Street.
The coachman, up front in the driver's seat, called out twice, yet elicited no responses.
The harpy stopped hovering overhead, instead perching on a nearby roof and tucking in her wings, unmoving.
In the dim night, it resembled a stone gargoyle, overlooking a real gargoyle across the street, a scene with no beholders.
Hopping from the driver's seat, the coachman circled to the rear to find out about his passenger, only to be met with Clayton's backup clothes.
Clang--clang---....
The driver must have been perturbed by some misunderstandings. He flung those clothes out of the carriage, frantically went back to the driver's seat, and tightened on the reins, urging the horse off.
Surely, Clayton Bello had been nowhere to be seen in the carriage.
The harpy finally sensed something off, a trace of confusion flashing across her face. Fluttering her wings, she swooped down, seemingly intent on chasing after the carriage to examine its inside.
Her movements, all taken in by Clayton, evoked a ballerina dancing above the stage—the rifle's rear sight.
The moment three chimes began echoing, Clayton pulled the trigger.
The gunshot melted into the booming noises as a furiously spinning bullet, corrected by the rifling, exited the barrel. It tore through the harpy's wing, shredding its tip apart.
After that, the bullet barely slowed but shattered a window behind the harpy. Upon impact, her balance was lost, and her momentum sent her thudding into the carriage's rear.
The coachman sensed the vibrations but dreaded a backward look and sharply jerked the reins. Within seconds, the vehicle vanished at the end of the street.
Gripping the rifle in his teeth, Clayton jumped down from the tower, raising a cloud of dust as his four limbs hit the ground.
The harpy seemed to have lost her consciousness upon the collision, now lying flat in the street.
The sight of her human head suggested a possibility of communication to Clayton.
His bristling wolf hairs withdrawing into his body, he shifted back to human, then changed into the backup clothes. Despite the repulsive stench, he held the harpy in one hand and the rifle in the other, walking toward the door of 214 Mercy Street.
He managed several soft knocks with the toe of his shoe.
"Joe, it's me."
The room was lit up.