Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Seven

Hearing the radio crackle to life, I snapped back to reality.

"Hotel Tango Panda Unit receiving,"

"Go ahead," I responded.

"Got a fire in progress at Canton House on Parnell Road near Victoria Park. The garden backs onto the canal. Closest unit, over,"

"Anyone believed to be inside?" I ask.

"It's too soon to tell. This is an anonymous call, a hoax. The caller is using a payphone, and we're attempting a callback. We need to assess, over."

"Received. Keep me updated," I say.

It was not exactly the call I had been hoping for. Hoping it was just another hoax, but recent patterns suggested otherwise. I've been pestering the higher-ups for weeks, pointing out the obvious, only to be shut down and told to stay in my lane. Be seen and not heard. The usual bureaucratic nonsense. But hey, who needs permission when you can ask for forgiveness later?

As I made my way through Pendal Road, the sick feeling in my gut intensified. The smell of burning wood and furniture wafted through the car vents, confirming the call's authenticity. I rolled up the stone and gravel driveway to Canton House, greeted by fire trucks and a chaotic scene. As I fondly call them, water fairies battled the yellow embers, threatening to devour the house.

Stepping into the nighttime air, a chilling breeze and the acrid stench of burning assaulted me. No onlookers, no nearby payphone. How the hell was the call made? As the flames grew more aggressive, I stepped back, the ominous feeling settling in. The scent changed, triggering a familiar dread in my stomach.

Bouncing back from seeing Chinni's face and frozen, I took a deep breath, trying to make sense of the situation. The night was filled with unanswered questions, and my hand throbbed with pain. Flexing my fingers, I caught Skip's gaze, revealing a hint of fear.

"Hotel Tango, panda unit. We have an update for you when you're ready," the radio interrupted.

"Go ahead," I reply, ready for more unsettling news.

"A neighbouring cottage spotted at least one suspect leaving over the fence, possibly carrying something. Callers mentioned a loud pop; the suspect may have boarded a canal boat. No clear names or information on the family, but they go by Conrad, foster carers since '55. No details on the number of children under their care," the voice on the radio informs me.

Foster parents are a peculiar target for arson. The pieces weren't fitting together. I shared my scepticism with the radio, "This isn't right.. Foster parents, out of the way location. Something's off."

With the radio cutting out, I continued my investigation. The path toward the canal bank was treacherous in the dark, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the situation was getting weirder. As I approached the low fence shielding the murky waters, I was intrigued by the possibility of an escape route via the canal. However, I needed to confirm the plausibility of the update.

In the distance, a separate low fence shielded the murky waters. As suggested, it wouldn't take an Olympic athlete to skip that. I should check to see how plausible the update was. The pathway heading towards the fence line was tricky to navigate in the dark, making it hard for anyone to escape quickly.

I crouched in the drizzle, skimming the oozing rainwater off my face and clearing my eyes. My footing slipped sideways, stubbing into what I thought was a step—dam near tripping over. Thanking my lucky stars, I was alone, sparing the windups. Whatever I'd hit wasn't quite a step, the thickness of brick but solid wood. My eyes slowly adjusted, ears twerking bat-like, listening to the water fairies going toe to toe with a ferocious beast and sounding proud of their efforts so far.