Julian walks down the street after leaving Steph and Janie at the streetcar stop. He’s pretty sure they’ll be okay, there aren’t any guarantees in life, and something else aside from what’s hunting her could happen to them, but he’s sure between the two of them they’ll be able to handle what anything Toronto can throw at them. Steph might not think much of his action man skills, but Julian figured he could read the streets well enough to steer them to wherever his home was safely.

He still wonders why he chose to interfere. He hadn’t even seen what was going on, just charged out in a blind rage to attack whoever was disturbing him. Wasn’t even near a full moon, and he’s not controlling his temper. Not good. Maybe he needs some help. So where does a werewolf go to deal with anger management issues? He lets out a growl of laughter at the thought, rousing a drunk sleeping in a doorway out of his stupor.

"Shit". The guy’s eyes are wide and afraid. "Did you hear that?" he says to the world at large and Julian. "Big fucking dog". 

Julian just looks at the guy and shrugs. "Ran down the street - chasing a rat or something I guess."

"Fuckin’ hate rats" mumbles the voice as it slips back into oblivion. A half bottle of something cheap and dark falls out of pocket. Julian leans forward, dragging a twenty out of his jeans, stuffs it into the pocket. When the guy goes to look for the bottle he’ll find the twenty. He might be confused for a bit, but he’ll also be able to get twice as much of whatever the shit is he’s drinking so think he’s come out ahead.

He takes a swig from the bottle, trusting his hundreds of years of immunity to keep him safe from whatever bacteria the guy’s petrie dish of a mouth had been stewing, and almost spits it back out. Christ the fucker must have a cast iron throat. It was like gargling with barbed wire. It’s too late, but he wonders if he should have sniffed before swigging. Some the more hard core drunks liked to fortify their basic whisky with aqua-velva or other crazy shit.

Well, better late than never - no just really cheap rot-gut whisky. Lesson learned he takes a smaller swig the second go round. Still burns but at least his oesophagus didn’t try to leap out of his throat and strangle him this time. Opiates might have their own unique dangers, but they sure are easier to ingest. Needles or pills are far better than forcing this sort of shit down your throat. 

Oh, well, to each their own - one man’t medicine etc ad nauseam and for fuck’s sake now I’m talking to myself in cliches. So aside from my personal issues what’s the elephant in the room I’m trying to avoid? After all this time am I finally giving in to the "beast" within, or had something else caused the change and anger?

He tries to put himself back in the alley again, coming out of his stupor. He hears the steady thud thud of boots impacting flesh, the smell of blood, the grunt of breath expelled, and the sound of someone slowly dying. But there’s something else, something not heard, seen or sensed - but felt. Not something he’s felt in a long time.

"Fuck" He says far louder than he meant to. He hasn’t felt or sensed anything like it in five hundred years. Blind unremitting hate - hate that was fed by a desire for violence and destruction. And it hadn’t come from the three he killed. They were just tools. It had come from behind him - further into the alley. 

"Fuck" He says again, quieter this time. He’s going to have to back to the alley and check it out. There had been something else there. And that something was the real problem. So much for slouching off and not getting involved. If what he thinks was there, than he has to get involved. At the risk of sounding like a drama queen he thinks he has to not only to keep Janie and Steph safe, but the fate of the world might just be in balance. 

There are some things even a three hundred year old opiate addiction don’t shield you from. And memories of pure evil are one of them. They might recede to some darkened corner of your mind, but they’re always there and never really forgotten.

Throwing the bottle away with a jerk Julian turns to go back to the alley where this all started. He heads for the nearest side streets - hoping he can affect the change without being seen and travel faster - when he picks up a scent he recognizes. "Shit". It’s more of those things he killed earlier. Three again, travelling together and headed for - "Fuck" - Boneman’s.

He smiles to himself. They’re in for a nasty surprise, not many people expect to find a demon lord in Toronto, let alone in this dimension. Probably why Boneman likes it here so much.  Knowing his friend can take of himself Julian continues towards a darkened side street. If someone is sending more of those things onto Janie’s trail finding out more is even more important. 

He smiles grimly to himself as he gains the shadows and changes. Whomever it is is trying to manipulate events without showing its hand. Julian’s always hated marionettes, their stupid painted faces and somebody pulling their strings. He hates those who set them up as puppet masters even more - trying to avoid getting their hands dirty by pulling strings and watching everyone jump to their command. Maybe it’s time for those strings to be pulled and see what’s at the other end.