On the mangled corpse at the scene, Alan saw the evidence of a savage end. The man's neck and abdomen had been shredded, large chunks of flesh torn away by teeth and claws, but there were also the telltale clean slices of a Cutting Spell across his back. It was clear the victim had first been incapacitated by magic, then left to be brutally tortured to death by the werewolves.
Even Alan, seasoned as he was, had never witnessed a killing this primitive and cruel. It was no wonder the Wizarding World harbored such a deep-seated animosity toward the breed.
After examining the body, Alan turned his attention to the remains of the cargo box. Most of the splintered fragments were spotless; Kiki had clearly been meticulous in her cleaning duties. Among the wreckage, he found several small drawers scattered across the dirt. Though they had been emptied, a faint residue remained in the corners of the wood.
Alan picked up a handful of the dust, bringing it to his nose. "Mugwort—the base for the Draught of Living Death—but no powdered asphodel root to complete the brew. There's also lavender, flubberworm mucus, and valerian. Standard ingredients for high-grade sleeping draughts. Kiki was telling the truth."
He activated his Tracing Charm to scan the immediate area. The shimmering trail confirmed her story: one human and six werewolves. According to the scent, the wizard had retreated in the direction he came from, taking five of the wolves with him.
However, one of the werewolves had broken off, running in the opposite direction. Judging by the depth and spacing of the four-legged prints, this individual was moving at full speed, as if driven by a desperate urgency. Was he a messenger going to gather reinforcements, or had he been assigned a separate task? Alan stared at the diverging trails, his brow furrowed in thought.
Before he could reach a conclusion, he was startled by a rhythmic, sickening thud coming from a nearby oak.
Kiki was standing by the tree, her face a mess of tears and snot, repeatedly slamming her forehead against the rough bark. "Kiki is useless! Kiki is a house-elf without a master! Why is Kiki so stupid? She couldn't protect him! Kiki deserves to die!"
She lunged toward the ground, snatching up a jagged stone. With a look of haunted resolution, she prepared to drive it into her own temple.
Clang!
A spark of red light knocked the stone from her hand. Alan strode toward her, his face flushed with irritation. "What are you doing? Your master is dead and your first thought isn't to avenge him, but to take the easy way out? Have you no spine at all?"
"But Kiki cannot beat the monsters! And Kiki has no master! Kiki is nothing! Master always said useless things should be destroyed!" she wailed, collapsing into the dirt.
*Your master sounds like he was a charming individual,* Alan thought, his jaw tightening. He despised those who refused to better themselves, and he found the absolute lack of self-respect inherent in house-elves nearly impossible to stomach.
As he was momentarily distracted by his own frustration, Kiki scrambled up to try and bash her head against a rock. Alan's patience snapped. He lunged forward and hoisted the small creature into the air by her rags, pinning her arms to her sides.
"Wizard, please let Kiki go!" she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Master is gone. Without a master, Kiki is a ghost. Kiki's beloved box is broken. Please, have mercy and let Kiki end it."
"Be quiet," Alan snapped. "From this moment on, you follow me. You do not have my permission to die. I have a use for you, and for now, that use involves hunting down the animals that did this."
Kiki froze. Her eyes, wide and watery, fixed on his. "You... you would allow Kiki to follow you? You would be Kiki's master?" The despair in her expression vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic hope.
"Think what you like," Alan muttered, dropping her back to the ground. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the instantaneous shift in her demeanor.
"Yes, Master! Whatever Master commands! Does Master wish to strike Kiki? Shall Kiki find a suitable switch?" Kiki looked up at him, her large ears twitching with excitement.
"No one is going to strike you. Just get ready. I'm going to bury the man over there; we have work to do," Alan ordered, completely unable to fathom the logic of an elf.
"Forgive Kiki, Master! Kiki is slow! Kiki did not understand Master's brilliance!" To punish herself for her perceived slowness, Kiki kicked a nearby stone, immediately hopping on one foot and whimpering in pain.
Alan let out a long, weary sigh and squatted down to look her in the eye. "Kiki."
"Kiki is here, Master! Command me!" she squeaked, still grimacing.
"From this point forward, you are forbidden from harming yourself in any way. Do you understand?"
"Kiki was wrong, Master! Kiki is sorry!" She began to reach for her own fingers to snap them, but one look at Alan's freezing glare sent her into a rigid, terrified salute.
Alan shook his head. He didn't know how to fix her psychological conditioning, but he knew that if he left her alone, she'd be dead within the hour. He made her stay put while he quickly interred the remains of the merchant; it wasn't right to leave a body to the scavengers. Once finished, he picked up the elf and Apparated back to the fork in the path where he had left his marker.
Two trails lay before him: the solo wolf who had bolted, and the larger group—led by the wizard—who were pursuing the centaurs.
The lone wolf was fast, and his objective was a mystery, but the larger pack posed the most immediate threat to the forest's residents. Alan pieced together the fragments of Kiki's story. The "monsters" wanted unicorns—or at least, that had been the original plan. This suggested a ring of magical creature smugglers. Moody had mentioned that the black market for rare beasts was currently more lucrative than the Ministry's entire budget.
The werewolf on the outskirts of the forest had likely been a scout. Lacking discipline, it had attacked the local herds but failed to find unicorns. Instead, it had stumbled upon a centaur troop and signaled its leader. They had sought out high-grade sedatives to capture their prey alive. Now, lacking the necessary Draught of Living Death, the smugglers would be forced to use second-tier potions—enough to drop a wizard, perhaps, but questionable against the high magical resistance of a centaur or a unicorn.
Given the merchant's failure to deliver, Alan suspected the werewolf wizard would shift his target. If he couldn't have a unicorn, a dozen centaurs would fetch a high price on the black market for experimental breeding or gladiatorial pits. He began to run, following the heavy scent of the pack.