The Reveal

Guests get a reveal

The Hotel des Cimes clung to the mountainside like a stubborn limpet, a grand if slightly faded establishment nestled among ancient pines. Inside, a motley collection of guests sought refuge from the encroaching autumn chill, their conversations a muffled murmur against the rising wind. There was Dr. Silas Thorne, a reclusive folklorist researching local legends; Madame Dubois, a Parisian socialite with a perpetually critical eye; Captain Elias Vance, a grizzled, taciturn explorer; and the young, nervous honeymooners, Lisette and Henri. Presiding over it all was Antoine, the harried but ever-polite manager, his brow often furrowed with concern.

The first scream ripped through the cozy evening like a shard of ice. It was Lisette who found him, in the small, rarely used library, illuminated only by a single flickering lamp. Charles Albright, a boorish industrialist who had alienated every soul in the hotel within hours of his arrival, lay sprawled on the worn Persian rug. His throat was savagely torn, his chest raked with deep, unnatural claw marks, and the air reeked of blood and something wild, primal.

Panic ignited, spreading like wildfire. Whispers of "wolf" turned quickly to "werewolf," fueled by Dr. Thorne's hushed pronouncements about the ancient legends of the Valois woods. Terror truly set in when Antoine, attempting to summon the gendarmes, discovered the main road swallowed by a sudden, devastating mudslide. They were cut off, isolated, trapped with a killer �" or something worse.

Antoine, desperate, remembered an old, faded newspaper clipping: a specialist, known for dealing with...unusual threats. He managed to send a runner through a perilous mountain path to the nearest village, and two days later, just as the moon waxed full and round, Lokai arrived.

He was a man built of shadows and silences, tall and gaunt, with eyes like chips of flint that missed nothing. His clothes were plain, dark wool, and he carried a silver-tipped cane that seemed less an aid for walking and more a weapon waiting to be unleashed.

"Lokai," he announced, his voice a gravelly whisper as Antoine nervously briefed him in the lobby, the other guests huddled, watching. "You believe a werewolf is loose?"

Antoine wrung his hands. "The… the nature of the wounds, Monsieur. The local legends. And the howls we heard last night, unlike any wolf."

Lokai simply nodded, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests �" each face a mask of fear, suspicion, or poorly concealed contempt for Albright. "Then I shall find it. And I shall exterminate it."

His first act was to examine Albright's body, now laid out in a makeshift morgue in the unused cellar. He knelt, his fingers tracing the wounds with an almost detached precision. "Not a typical wolf," he murmured, more to himself than Antoine. "More…deliberate. And the strength required…" He sniffed the air, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor passing through him. "The scent is faint, but strong…decay, and something else, something… metallic."

Lokai then began his interviews, each guest interrogated individually in the drawing-room under the steely gaze of the hunter.

Dr. Silas Thorne was the first, eager to share his esoteric knowledge. "The lunar cycle, Monsieur Lokai, is paramount! The full moon is two nights hence. The beast will be strongest then. It often chooses those who are…unclean, or who transgress natural laws. Albright was certainly that." He spoke of lycanthropic lineages, of ancient curses, almost too much, too enthusiastically. Lokai noted how Thorne’s always-trembling hands seemed to have a faint, raw abrasion on one knuckle.

Madame Dubois was next, regal even in her terror. "It's all quite barbaric, isn't it? A beast roaming free! I heard noises in the night, a sort of snuffling around my window. My maid, Elara, can corroborate, though she's quite useless with fear." She dismissed the idea of a werewolf with a disdainful sniff, yet her eyes darted nervously towards the darkening windows. Lokai noted her sharp, almost claw-like fingernails, perfectly manicured.

Captain Elias Vance was terse, almost aggressively so. "Nonsense. Superstition. A man, likely a brigand, came in for a robbery. He was just too messy, that's all. I have hunted beast and man across five continents, and I tell you, a wolf, even a large one, doesn't tear a man apart like that. It's too…human in its precision." His gaze was unnervingly steady, but his rough, calloused hands never quite rested, one constantly adjusting the worn leather strap of what might have been a small, concealed knife under his jacket. Lokai observed a deep, faded scar running down Vance's right cheek, almost like an old claw mark.

Lisette and Henri, the young couple, were a bundle of nerves. Henri stammered about how they were asleep in each other's arms, frightened to death. Lisette, however, had a haunted look in her eyes. "I… I heard a sound just before the scream," she whispered to Lokai, clutching Henri's hand. "Like heavy breathing, very close to our door. And a faint, strange sound, like… like something sharpening metal." They had no contact with Albright, and seemed genuinely traumatized.

Lokai also spoke to Old Benoit, the grizzled groundskeeper, a man more at home in the woods than in the lodge. Benoit spoke of old legends, of a family line in the valley cursed with the beastly aspect. He limped, blaming a decades-old hunting accident, but his eyes, ancient and knowing, seemed to hold a secret. "The moon, m'sieur," Benoit croaked, "it calls to somethin' deep in the blood."

As the days passed, Lokai set about his work with methodical precision. He distributed wolfsbane and silver amulets, instructing guests to keep them close. He organized shifts to barricade doors and windows. He went out into the woods himself, searching for tracks, for den sites, returning with only the chill dampness clinging to his clothes. He placed small, almost invisible silver traps at key entry points, traps that remained undisturbed.

The tension in the hotel was a palpable thing. Arguments erupted over trivialities. Guests watched each other with barely disguised suspicion. On the eve of the full moon, Madame Dubois’s beloved Pomeranian was found disemboweled in the courtyard, its tiny body mangled by wounds that mirrored Albright’s. This time, the metallic scent Lokai had noted earlier seemed stronger, mingled with the dog’s blood.

Lokai gathered everyone in the drawing-room, the fire casting dancing shadows that made every face seem sinister. The full moon was a luminous orb outside, staring down through the high windows.

"We have two victims now," Lokai stated, his voice quiet but commanding. "One human, one animal. Both killed with the same unnatural ferocity. Both bearing wounds I've studied for years." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "And I have found the werewolf."

A collective gasp. Lisette whimpered. Thorne looked almost smug, as if his theories had been validated. Vance remained impassive, his eyes narrowed.

"It is not who you think," Lokai continued. "Not the folklore scholar, for his knowledge is too eager, his hands too soft. Not the socialite, for her fear of the messy is genuine. Not the young lovers, for their terror is as real as their alibi, and the young woman's observation of a 'sharpening noise' has proven crucial."

He paused, letting the silence stretch. "The beast is not of the Valois legends, nor is it a creature of tooth and claw that stalks the woods. The wounds on Albright and the dog lacked certain tell-tale signs. No shifting bone structure. No actual paw prints, only heavy boot marks nearby. And the metallic smell I detected… it wasn't the scent of a wild animal."

He turned slowly, his flinty gaze settling on Captain Elias Vance.

"You, Captain Vance, claim to have hunted across continents. You claim to scoff at superstition. Yet, you carry a weapon disguised as an explorer's tool �" a set of sharpened, retractable steel claws, custom-made, perfect for simulating such an attack. The metallic scent was of the fine oil you use to maintain them."

Vance’s impassive mask finally cracked. His hands clenched. "You're mad! I'm a hunter, not a monster!"

"Indeed," Lokai responded, a cold glint in his eye. "You are a hunter. And Albright was your prey, was he not? You encountered him on your last expedition, where he betrayed you, perhaps stole your research, leaving you ruined and disgraced. You followed him here. The mudslide was merely a stroke of luck, trapping him with you. The werewolf tale was a perfect cover, ensuring no one would look for a human killer."

Lokai then pointed to Vance's faded scar. "And your 'old scar'? It's fresh, isn't it? A defensive wound from Albright, perhaps from a struggle or his attempt to defend himself? You claimed it was an ancient injury. A true werewolf's claws would leave a far different mark."

Vance’s face contorted, all remnants of his gruff composure gone. "He deserved it!" he roared, lunging forward, his hand instinctively going for the hidden weapon.

But Lokai was faster. With a speed surprising for his gaunt frame, he brought his silver-tipped cane down, not with a strike, but pinning Vance's wrist against the polished wooden floor. The captain gasped, his face contorting not just in rage but in unexpected pain.

"Ah," Lokai whispered, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "And the final proof. My cane, it is not merely silver-tipped. It is pure silver. And while a true werewolf feels its burning touch, a human who has merely pretended to be a monster, who has used a silver-laced weapon to commit his unspeakable acts, would find themselves susceptible to its strange, debilitating effects."

Vance cried out, his skin blistering where the silver touched him, his strength draining away. He collapsed, whimpering, the fabricated claws clattering to the floor from his suddenly limp hand.

Antoine, stunned, quickly ordered the other guests to restrain the now-sobbing Captain Vance.

Lokai stood over the man, his eyes dark. "Not all monsters transform under the moon, Monsieur Vance. Some simply shed their humanity and embrace the beast within." He looked out at the full moon, then back at the bewildered faces of the guests. "The true monster was never hiding in the woods. It was right here, among us, cloaked in human skin."