Wanted (In More Ways Than One)

He had been tending to the chickens; feeding, watering, and occasionally running away from the cockerel that kept pecking at the rubber heel of his cherry-red wellingtons, when suddenly, there was a scream from inside the house.   His watering can clattered to the ground as his little legs carried him across the field at a sprint. The closer he grew to the back door, the louder the screams and snarls became and he barrelled into the kitchen, heart racing and chest heaving with every inhale. He looked around quickly, dread and fear crawling up his throat like two slippery serpents.    There was a crash from the living room. He stumbled through, eyes wide as he drank in the sight of debris strewn around the room – chunks of coffee table and shards of his mother’s beloved collection of glass mushrooms. The couch bore claw marks and flecks of red and one of the curtain rails sloped haphazardly, barely clinging to the wall. The television was shattered, its bulky plastic back sheared in half, exposing the oversized cathode ray and circuit board – both of which were beginning to smoke. One of the armchairs was overturned and torn and the lamp beside it was in pieces, more gooey red liquid coating its glass shade.   In the middle of it all lay his parents, limp and lifeless and painted in crimson. Near the swinging front door sprawled his older sister, gaze frozen eternally into one of shock and terror, chest still.   Her neck revealed a series of precise puncture wounds and he sank to his knees beside her and cried, uncaring if the monsters returned for him.   * * * That had been fifteen years ago. He was twenty-five now and he liked to imagine that if the monsters ever did return for him, he would crush each and every one of them with his bare hands. Or maybe his paws.   Michael Wyles was a six-foot-one wall of well-trained muscle with dark eyes and slightly-too-sharp canines. He rarely smiled, because life was not a joke, and his hair was always kept short. He knew his way around a gun despite rarely having to carry one and he was well-practiced in various forms of self-defence, since he had assumed that they would come in handy as an officer of the law.   He had risen up the ranks of the Merseyside constabulary far quicker than his peers and he had settled quite comfortably into the role of Detective Inspector. This was, after all, the position most likely to lead him to the monsters that had murdered his family.   His bosses seemed pleased with his work at least, if a little concerned by his stoicism. He wasn’t here to make friends though, so he brushed off their queries and ignored the mocking whispers of his colleagues about the stick lodged in a certain orifice. He was here to catch the Bad Guys and make the world a little safer and he didn’t care for distractions.   “Got another case for you, Wyles,” said his boss, Robert Cunliffe – a portly man with the male pattern baldness gene and a near-constant smile. Most people called him ‘Bob’, but Michael always called him ‘Sir’.   “Thank you, Sir,” Michael said militantly as he took the offered case file and began to leaf through it.  Accustomed to the detective’s lack of conversation skills, Superintendent Cunliffe continued in his thick Yorkshire accent. “Right strange one. Ice cream farm down in Kirkby had a break-in early this morning before they brought the cows in for milking. Nothing stolen, nothing damaged, but the cows have been... ah... vandalised.”   Michael cocked an eyebrow. “Shaved,” Robert clarified sheepishly. “Owner noticed that seven cows had letters shaved into their sides. Cows weren’t hurt and the hair will grow back but... well, it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it? Mr. Fenton is very upset. Special cows, you see. Guernseys, he said. Very adamant that we do something.” Michael set the file on his desk and fixed the Superintendent with an unimpressed look. Cunliffe rolled his shoulders.  “We have to do something, lad. Can’t have folks running around Merseyside, shaving farm animals for fun.” “Would you like me to knit them some woolly jumpers in case they get cold?” Michael asked drily, wondering when he had been reduced to giving stern lectures to local teenage pranksters. He had worked in London for a few years before deciding to move back home to Liverpool and he was beginning to question that decision; London had been rife with crime, serious crime that he could sink his metaphorical (and occasionally actual) teeth into. He was pretty certain that Liverpool had plenty of criminal activity too, but he had yet to be assigned to it.   Cunliffe’s lips twitched with amusement before he shook his head. “Just take a look, Wyles. Maybe something will come out of it, maybe it won’t. What have you got to lose? Besides, the country air will do you good. You spend far too much time with that computer.” He gestured to Michael’s laptop, currently displaying a newspaper article about a string of deaths where the victims had been found highly anaemic, beaten, and with what appeared to be animal bites littering arms, shoulders, and necks.   Michael pursed his lips and drew himself to his feet. He nodded stiffly to his boss before striding out of the station, file clenched beneath his arm.   As he slid into his car, the passenger door opened and a petite woman slipped in beside him, pretty brown eyes narrowed into a glare.   “Thanks for waiting for me, Michael,” she said in a melodic Welsh accent that took a lot of people by surprise when they first met her. “You’re supposed to tell your partner when you’ve got a case, not leave them to find out from the guys huddled around the coffee machine.”   Michael started the engine. “Sorry, Patel.” And he was, because Ishani Patel was often the only person willing to be his partner and, although this was only her first year as a detective, she had proved herself invaluable on multiple occasions with her extraordinary way of looking outside the box.   She sighed and tied her thick, raven locks into a pristine pony tail before smiling at him patiently. “How many times have I told you? Call me Ishani. Or even Isi. We’ve known each other long enough.”   Michael remained silent as he pulled out of the station and Ishani rolled her eyes good-naturedly before snagging the case file from the back seat.   “Oh, I love cows,” she cooed. “They’re like big dogs.” She grinned at him, sneaking a not-so-subtle glance over his broad chest and biceps. “I bet you’re a big-dog fan. You probably have a Doberman or a Rottweiler at home, right?”   “I have an English Spot,” Michael stated and Ishani frowned thoughtfully. “Is that a type of spaniel? What does it look like?”  “A rabbit.” Ishani blinked and fell quiet for a moment. “Oh,” she said eventually before returning her gaze to the documents spread over her lap.   The drive should have taken thirty minutes, but they arrived at the farm after forty-five minutes because a tractor pulled out in front of them and they resorted to rolling down a single-lane country road at eight miles per hour for over three miles. Michael hated the countryside.   When they stepped out of the car, and Ishani had pulled herself out of the waterlogged pothole she immediately fell into, a young farmer greeted them. He wore filthy, blue overalls and smelled like the back end of a hundred cows, and when he smiled, it was clear that he hadn’t seen a dentist since he had been born.   “Y’alright?” he asked in a ripe Liverpudlian accent. “I’m Detective Inspector Patel and this is Detective Inspector Wyles. Are you Mr. Fenton?”  The farmer appeared to be chewing. “Aye. I called you about me cows. Seven of ‘em. Kids must’ve broken in during the night. I tell you, if you can’t catch ‘em, I’ll wring their necks. They’re always hanging about, up to no good. Wanting free samples, that’s what it is.”   Ishani flipped open a notebook as Michael glanced around the farm. It was relatively tidy for a farm – no tractor tyres strewn around and no empty feed containers blocking paths. Mr. Fenton seemed to keep his farm in order despite his appearance.   “Free samples... You mean ice cream?” Ishani asked. Mr. Fenton frowned. “What?”   “You’re an ice cream farm, aren’t you?” “Oh! Aye,” Mr. Fenton said after a long pause. “Ice cream samples. That’s what it is. Kids don’t want to pay for nothing.”   “So, did they break anything? These kids?” Ishani asked and Michael tuned her out as he wandered towards the barn that housed the cattle.   He climbed over the fence and approached the nearest shaved cow. It didn’t appear worried by his presence and when he touched its side, it didn’t flinch in pain. There was no reddening of the skin and no obvious wounds – whoever had shaved the ‘C’ into its side had been careful not to hurt it.    Glancing around himself discreetly, Michael scented at the hairless patch, then wrinkled his nose at the irritating whiff of latex. They had been wearing gloves, which probably meant that there would be no identifying fingerprints.   He glanced down at the thick pools of slurry beneath his feet. It would be a miracle if they found any DNA. Not that this case was even worth a DNA search.   He watched the cows shuffle around the barn and wondered what the letters meant. There were two cows with C’s shaved into their sides, and the rest bore the letters: A, E, N, O, and I. He pulled out his notebook and began playing around with the letters, forming words with them out of idle curiosity.   NO ICE AC CONE CIA NICE OCA CAN O ICE COCAINE Michael blinked and frowned at the last word. That... couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? He tucked his notebook into his pocket when Ishani and Mr. Fenton joined him in the barn. “Right sight, isn’t it?” Mr. Fenton bit out, shaking his head. “Prize winning cows, they are. Shaved like common sheep.” Ishani glanced at her ruined shoes in dismay as slurry burned the charcoal leather. “Yeah. Real shame.” She smiled at the distressed farmer. “But we’ll try and sort this out for you. It won’t happen again.”   “That’s great to hear, love,” Mr. Fenton said sincerely and Ishani wrinkled her nose at the endearment. “Hey, would you like a cup of tea? We can talk about it a bit more inside?”   “Now there’s an offer,” Ishani said and Michael followed them inside the café silently, pondering over the word he had found.   Inside the café was a long glass counter filled with colourful, unique ice creams. Mr. Fenton moved behind it to start brewing the tea as Ishani practically drooled over the multitude of flavours.    “Didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast today,” she said. “How much for two scoops of chocolate orange brownie?”   Mr. Fenton smiled widely. “For you, it’s free. You’re already doing me a favour.” Ishani’s face lit up and she practically vibrated with excitement as the farmer washed his hands and donned a white apron.   “This place has been named Ice Cream Producer of the Year for three years on the run now,” Mr. Fenton said proudly. “Best and most addictive flavours in all of the north.” Ishani grinned as she received her little tub of ice cream and she delved into it before she even reached the table. She groaned happily and devoured the treat.   Michael’s brows drew together as Ishani’s pupils seemed to... dilate, and she tugged her jacket off with a huff.    “Hot in here, isn’t it?” she said with a slightly glassy gaze. Michael narrowed his eyes. “No.” He snatched the empty tub of ice cream as Mr. Fenton set down their teas, and he sniffed at the tub deeply before fixing the confused farmer with a dark look.   “Most ‘addictive’ flavours?” he nearly growled and Mr. Fenton suddenly looked very nervous. He eyed the door and Michael grabbed his arm before he could get any ideas. The other man scowled at him angrily.    “Let me go. This is harassment!” “I wonder what your secret ingredient is?” Michael asked sarcastically before flicking his gaze to the kitchen. “Where do you keep it?”   “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate!” “Your stash,” snapped Michael as Ishani stood and glanced between them both, puzzled and not entirely focused. “The drug that you feed to every child who asks for an ice cream.”   “What drug?” Mr. Fenton asked weakly. Michael quickly lost his patience and frog-marched the farmer into the kitchen.   “Oi! You can’t be in here! Clean area this is!” “Show me,” Michael growled as he scanned the room, scenting the air as he did so. There were too many sweet aromas in the room to identify the illegal one and Michael gave up after the overpowering scent of lemon stuck inside his nostrils.   “You can’t do this to me!” “Hard way it is then,” Michael muttered as he bent the farmer’s arms behind his back. “Let’s take this back to the station and we can have a long chat about it.”   He manhandled the farmer out of the café and into the car, keeping a tight grip even when Mr. Fenton attempted to kick at his legs and make a break for it. He shoved the man into the car unceremoniously and locked the door as Mr. Fenton banged on the window angrily.   “Patel,” Michael called and his partner wandered out of the café, looking rather hazy-eyed.   “You’ve been drugged,” Michael said as he helped her into the car.  She grinned at him and shook her head. “I feel great though?”   Michael rolled his eyes and shut the door behind her before making the journey back to the station. * * * “So, these teenagers somehow found out about this ‘secret ingredient’ and, what? Shaved the cows to send Mr. Fenton a message?” Superintendent Cunliffe asked as he scratched at his head, tea resting upon his stomach as he slouched in his chair.   Ishani shrugged. “Seems like it. Don’t know why the kids didn’t just come to us though. A big risk just to prove a point.”   “You know what kids are like,” sighed Cunliffe as he sipped from his cup. “Creative, I’ll give them that. Good work, you two. As long as you’re feeling better, Isi, might as well make a start on the report.”   Ishani nodded, bright-eyed and enthusiastic as any newbie detective. She smiled at Michael sweetly, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’ll get us a drink before we start, yeah?”    Michael said nothing as she left the Superintendent’s office and Cunliffe chuckled at his desk when the door closed behind her.   “Glad to see you two getting along so well,” he said pointedly and Michael frowned, puzzled, before lifting his chin.   “Is that a joke, Sir?” Cunliffe arched an eyebrow before shaking his head, a soft sigh tumbling from his lips. “Never mind, Michael. Anything else you’d like to tell me?”   Michael stood a little straighter. “These... youths. Do we search for them?” “The way I see it, these kids haven’t done anything wrong other than shave a couple of hairy beasts. Didn’t leave a single scratch either. If anything, they did our job for us and caught the actual criminal. Leave them be.”   Michael nodded stiffly and left the office at his boss’ dismissal. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely convinced that a few rebellious teenagers were responsible for shaving the cattle. After all, what sort of teenagers donned latex gloves to clip a few cows? There wasn’t a single scrap of evidence left behind either – no litter or empty bottles or cans... It was too clean.    No scents either. Michael had checked. He had smelled every inch of that barn and there were no indications that anyone had touched anything. The perpetrator had even cleaned the clippers after they had used them. They had been so meticulous, so professional and Michael didn’t like it.    Yet, there was nothing he could do and he had been ordered to leave the case alone since it appeared to be wrapped up. Perhaps if he had been human, he would have considered it wrapped up too.   Unfortunately, he was a werewolf and when his nose picked up on something – or in this case, a lack of something – he tended to believe it. Something was off about this case.   He sighed and paced over to Ishani, who greeted him with a warm smile and a cup of coffee; milk and two sugars, exactly how he liked it. She always seemed to know what he liked.   They started the report.