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Chapter Text

1470

“So every few years, you can hear him stomping around the cathedral, looking for his severed head and for the pagans that killed him…to take revenge!” A sharp cackle erupted from Jehan as the young man waved his arms, making him look like some hungry wraith.

“Tha-that’s not true!” the boy’s shaky voice protested as he shrunk away. “He’s dead—he can’t come back until Judgment Day!”

“Oh, it’s true, alright. The honest-to-God truth! He spends most of his time haunting the hill on Montmarte, but Notre Dame might be due for a little visit from Denis soon.” A cruel and broad grin stretched across Jehan’s lips as he rambled, inching closer to the boy for increased fright.

“But…but a soul can’t wander around when it’s dead,” Quasimodo continued to argue. “I-it just can’t happen.”

“It can and it does, Quasi. There have been books filled with stories about spirits wandering the earth. They’re souls who have been damned by God and forced to stay here until the Rapture—even Cain could be a spirit by now!”

“What on earth are you going on about?” The Minister's familiar baritone called out as footsteps resounded toward the bell tower loft.

“Just telling stories, nothing to worry about,” Jehan answered coolly, nodding at his brother’s ward.

“Jehan says that Saint Denis could be coming back from the dead,” Quasimodo piped up, his small frame tensing.

Frollo glared at his little brother as he sat the basket of food down at the table. “What sort of nonsense are you spewing now?”

The young man raised his hands in defense, never breaking his grin. “They’re just tall tales. No harm in hearing a few.”

Quasi jumped in. “He says that Denis’s ghost is coming to seek revenge—here in the cathedral!”

The Minister couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I reiterate: nonsense. I can’t have you filling his head with stories spun by vagabonds and heretics.”

“There are grains of truth to them,” Jehan countered mischievously. “I’ve met many an English pilgrim who can attest that there are plenty of places that are haunted. From old abbeys to battlegrounds, they have dozens of places lousy with ghosts.”

“Then perhaps England itself is rife with unholiness,” Frollo bit back. He turned to his charge, his stony expression unwavering as he spoke. “Quasimodo, I’ve told you already: do not listen to a word he says, particularly in regards to superstitions. Ghosts, please. Souls go straight to their place of judgment upon death, not roam the earth.” Dutifully, the boy nodded in understanding, despite the nervousness still evident on his expression.

“Why don’t you try and recall our previous lesson. I need to speak with my brother.” Promptly, Frollo dragged Jehan down to the stairwell entrance.

“Why do you insist on making my job more difficult?” the judge asked curtly, offering an icy glare as he let go of his brother.

“It’s all in good fun. Besides, it’s a load of garbage—nobody believes that stuff,” Jehan playfully retorted, never faltering despite his brother’s attempt at intimidation.

“Well, he thoroughly believes in what you tell him. He’s an impressionable child who doesn’t know a thing about the world out there. I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t brainwash him.”

“He’s eight—he’s old enough to know when I’m spinning a yarn.”

With great impatience, the judge reasoned, “He’s never so much as seen a pig in its sty—of course he’s going to believe in your little folktales.”

Jehan scoffed at him. “Sing him the old refrain again: I can’t be trusted and there’s no such thing. Who’d be stupid enough to believe in spirits?”

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss them entirely; there are still souls trapped in Purgatory and awaiting final judgment, but they don't walk among us. What they need is our prayers, not your ridicule.”

“Oh, of course, of course…and I’m sure throwing a few coins to the priests helps speed up the process, doesn’t it?”

Frollo didn’t hesitate to grip his brother by the doublet collar, a new scowl on the Minister’s face. “This is still a holy place. If you look to speak blasphemy, take it to whatever tavern you just crawled out of.”

Pushing him away, Jehan conceded to stop his ghost stories. “No more specters, but there are other creatures maybe Quasi and you should be wary of,” he alluded as he started back up the stairs to the bell tower.

“Oh, please enlighten me,” the judge snarked.

Jehan crouched down to the fidgety boy and asked, “Quasimodo, are you familiar with something called…a lycanthrope?”

“Oh, for the love of God…” Frollo grumbled as he began to set up his and the boy’s lunch, sneering at the very word.

“No. What is that?” Quasi asked apprehensively.

The younger Frollo again offered a devious smirk. “It also goes by the name of a “werewolf”. It’s a shapeshifter: someone cursed with being able to turn into a monster that's half-wolf, half-man.”

“It’s a sinister legend,” the Minister noted irritably. “If it were truly possible for someone to turn into a wolf, no doubt it’s the work of the Devil.”

“But they’re not real…right?” the hunchback asked, misshapen eyes darting between the brothers.

“Of course not,” Frollo said firmly.

“Oh, they’re real, alright,” Jehan raised, his tone smooth. “As real as any of us.”

“You actually believe in them?” His brother drew his brows at him, disbelief etched on his angular face.

“Claude, you believe in the most outrageous things in the world just because they’re attached to saints: you believe Denis picked up his severed head and continued to walk around, preaching. Are you really saying it’s impossible to believe that someone can be cursed by changing into a wolf?”

Frollo found himself momentarily stumped at his brother’s sudden grasp of rhetoric.

Jehan continued. “Jonah was swallowed by a giant fish, and the beasts in Revelation? Much scarier than any wolf-man or ghost.”

Not to be embarrassed before his ward, Frollo argued, “If such things exist, no doubt it is punishment from God.”

Jehan nodded, pretending to take Claude’s words into consideration. Cocking his head aside, Jehan then asked, “Quasi, has my brother told you about the wolf attack in 1450?”

Quasimodo nodded. “Master told me that wolves ran through the streets and ate people.”

Frollo cut in. “Jehan, you were but a mere three years old when that happened. What would you know about it?”

“And you weren’t even in Paris at the time, weren’t you?” Jehan turned back to Quasimodo and continued. “So you must know about the leader, Courtaud—the one with the cropped tail?”

The boy answered, “The townspeople killed him by throwing rocks and spears at him.”

“And where did they kill him?”

Quasimodo’s one good eye widened at the realization. “Right in front of the cathedral!”

Jehan continued, his tone ominous. “Who’s to say that Courtaud wasn’t a man in the form of a wolf? How else could he command a pack that big to breach the city walls and attack innocent people? Especially when there’s a great, big forest right outside the city limits? If you ask me, Courtaud was a werewolf and his spirit might still be stalking Paris, maybe right here in Notre Dame, as well.”

“Jehan, that’s enough!” Frollo exclaimed, positively livid. “Where did this sudden fascination with werewolves and shapeshifters even come from?”

“I told you, those English seem to know a lot about ghosts and monsters. I met this nice fellow from Yorkshire in the tavern a few days ago, and he says that there’s an inn where about this time of year a priest has to say a special blessing. Why? To keep the wolves away. Every year, the night before Saint Andrew’s Day, which happens to be in a few days.”

“What does this have to do with lycanthropy?”

“He started going on about werewolves being a real thing back home—local legend says that centuries ago, some unlucky bastard was transformed into one and ate a shepherd and his daughter.”

Behind the judge, Quasimodo stared out the maw of the tower, his eyes drawn to the woods beyond Paris’s walls. No doubt he was trying to picture the red and brown-leafed forests thick with bloodthirsty creatures.

“Well, I for one have had about enough of this drivel,” Frollo countered, gripping his brother by the shoulder and leading him out of the bell tower.

“You don’t believe me?” Jehan chirped, a devious glint in his eyes. “Ever read Gervase of Tilbury? Wrote about them in his book. Marie de France—her book, too!”

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve suddenly become well-read?”

Jehan pushed him away. “No, but I’m inclined to believe that Englander: he told me the proof can all be found in those books. You like to read, so why don’t you do a little digging at Saint Victor’s and tell me werewolves don’t exist? Go ask the Archdeacon and he’ll tell you.” With those damning words, the young man exited the bell tower.

“Should we go ask Augustin?” Quasimodo’s voice raised as he waited at the top of the steps.

“Why bother him? I’ve already told you, my boy, it’s all a load of superstition and folktales.”

“But…what if Jehan is telling the truth?”

Frollo gritted his teeth in annoyance and sardonically replied, “Quasimodo, if somehow a werewolf finds its way to Notre Dame, then we may go and ask the Archdeacon for guidance, understand?”

“I…I…”

“Let’s just have our meal and hurry this lesson along, shall we?”

Quasimodo again could not stop his attention from being drawn towards the forests just a few miles away, wondering if Jehan was simply telling a story, or warning him of a real monster.

X

Autumn this year had brought a tremendous chill and left the bell tower more frigid than the rest of the cathedral. As usual, Quasimodo was forced to bundle up more to fight off the cold, all the while Jehan’s story rattled in his head.

His master was right: there were no such things as werewolves and no amount of black magic could make such a terrible perversion of nature. Werewolves were monsters and—

“Monster…” the boy whispered. He was one, so who was to say that God couldn’t allow for a wolf-man to exist?

God loves even a monster, the Archdeacon tried to console the boy once when he asked what it meant to be one.

Are werewolves God’s creatures too? He wondered to himself as he remembered ghastly illustrations of wolves in some of the manuscripts housed here in the church. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what a wolf-man even looked like.

Quasimodo was suddenly roused from his thoughts by a sound, something scratching near a stack of broken crates. “Another mouse,” he mumbled, before closing his eyes and attempting to get some sleep.

Scritch, scritch, scritch…The noise only got louder, now sounding as though there were two of them scratching.

The boy sat up and looked on in darkness towards the spot, his heart pounding. No, the bell tower always provided refuge for creatures, from mice to birds—it had to be one of them. The scratching noise sounded once more, making him recoil again.

“Be brave,” Quasi ordered himself as he paced carefully towards the crates, wielding the sole lit candle before him.

“Hello?” he squeaked out, squinting through the inky blackness. He instantly wished that the moon was full and shining through to offer more light.

Without warning, the stack toppled over and the crash echoed throughout the tower. Quasi jumped back, his hand held tightly around the candleholder ring. Shaky breaths escaped the boy as he whipped around and tried to locate the creature responsible for the disturbance.

“It’s just a mouse, it’s just a mouse,” he repeated, feeling as though he were frozen in this spot. Terrified, the boy half-expected a mouse the size of a barncat to leap out at him.

A new sound broke through the brief silence, more petrifying than the previous scratching: a low and guttural noise, like a giant stomach grumbling, amplified and made the boy blanche. Before he could think, Quasimodo turned and darted back to his sleeping cot, hurriedly throwing the sheets over his head and shutting his eyes. Images of the numerous demons and grotesques adorning the church flashed in his mind, fearing one of them might have come to life.

It’s just a mouse, it’s just a mouse, his mind sounded in a mantra before muttering prayers to some saint to intercede and protect him.

X

As he climbed up the bell tower steps, Frollo prayed that any more notions about werewolves wouldn’t continue to plague the boy. He figured that of all the awful things he had to warn Quasimodo about, fictional creatures should not be one of them.

Upon arriving, Frollo was welcomed by the sight of the boy still asleep, most unusual. “Quasimodo,” he barked, rousing the boy from his slumber.

Quasimodo blinked, revealing red-rimmed eyes as he woke up. “Good morning, sir,” he greeted with exhaustion.

“Decided to sleep in, have you?” the judge clipped.

“I, um…I didn’t sleep much. I didn’t fall asleep until the sun started coming up.”

“What? Why on earth would you…” Frollo’s expression dropped as he realized why. “Are you still fixated on Jehan’s ridiculous story?”

Quasimodo shook off his sheets. “Master, please. There-there was something here last night, and it made an awful sound, an-and I didn’t know what to do!”

The Minister huffed at such theatrics. “You can’t really be afraid of the small animals that make their way in here anymore. You should be more than accustomed to their presence.”

“But Master, this wasn’t a mouse—it knocked over all of those boxes, and its sound…I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Frollo arched a brow at his ward. “Is that so?” He looked over at the pile of discarded crates, noting that they would have needed enough force to be tipped over. “And what was this alleged sound it made?”

“It-it sounded like…” The boy did his best to imitate the haunting, rumbling sound.

Frollo smirked, amused. “You sound like a mad dog, my boy. But I suppose you wouldn’t know one if it walked up and bit you. And I doubt that anything might have emerged from darkness and growled at you. What you were experiencing was simply a bad dream.”

The boy shook his head furiously. “I swear, it wasn’t a dream, Master.”

“Jehan filled your head with fantasies and your mind was playing tricks on you. It happens to every child.”

“But, still…what if I see it again?”

The judge had half a mind to slap some sense into the frightened boy. “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?”

X

With deep anxiety, Quasimodo watched as day turned to evening and the sun dipped over the mountains beyond. He now dreaded that with summer gone, night approached much quicker, leaving him at the mercy of the shadows.

He sat upright with his hands folded in prayer while his eyes zipped around the tower, scanning for any sort of movement.  He had pleaded for Frollo to stay with him, and assure him that what the boy saw last night really was a figment of his imagination. Needless to say that the Minister promised him that he was old enough to face his fear on his own.

Quasimodo was sure to light another candle and reminded himself that he was not afraid of the dark, merely whatever mysterious creature lay lurking within. So far he hadn’t heard a peep, ever hopeful that last night was a simple nightmare fueled by Jehan’s wicked words.

“There’s nothing there,” the boy reminded himself as he pulled a sheet tighter around him. After all, his master was the smartest man in Paris—he wouldn’t lie to the boy, would he?

Hours seemed to have passed because Quasimodo found himself startled awake by the new sound, as if metal were scraping, leaving echoes of clinks and thumps. The spirit was likely sifting through the errant box of tools, drawing the boy’s attention towards the abyss-like darkness.

With a trembling hand Quasimodo reached for a candleholder, whose taper was nearly a tallow stub. He straightened up as much as possible and set his jaw. He would not be scared, and he would show his master that he could be brave.

The boy stepped closer to the small pile of tools and found nothing as he continued to examined the space closer. Perhaps Frollo was right and Jehan’s stories were just stories.

Without warning, a deep and foreboding growl broke the silence, louder than the one heard last night. Quasimodo stopped and let a shiver ripple down his spine as the sound rang out. The growl undulated into something worse, a snarling that drained the color from the boy’s face.

Candle held forward, he turned around and his jaw dropped at the sight: a hand-like extremity reached towards him, with dark gray and brown hair covering it. Under its stark, white eyes and pointed ears was a long, black muzzle. Below them, a set of sharp, yellow fangs and a bright, blood-red tongue hanging out. Surrounding this hideous grimace was a mane of unruly fur.

Barely waiting for the boy to comprehend what stood before him, the beast let out a bone-chilling snarl. In the blink of an eye, the monster spun around and disappeared into the darkness, its tail—cropped and limp—flying behind him.

Though his mouth opened, no sound, save for a sharp gasp, came out. Quaking and tethered in place, the candleholder slipped from Quasimodo’s grasp. Before the small fire could spread, the flame was immediately extinguished by the warm liquid running down the boy’s leg and pooling around him.

Chapter Text

“…In England we have often seen men change into wolves according to the phases of the moon,” read the words of the writer Gervase in Otia Imperiala. “…the English name for them is werewolves.”

The Minister rubbed his eyes, which stung after combing through the texts late into the night. At Jehan’s behest, Frollo had begrudgingly gone to the library at Saint Victor’s abbey. Despite his skepticism, he could not turn his eyes away.

The tale of the knight Raimbaud de Pouget was especially haunting: the man driven mad as he wandered through the woods alone and transformed into a beast. Thankfully he had been saved by the woodsman by way of cutting off his paw. Gervase wrote that numerous eyewitnesses could attest to the knight’s confession: werewolves were, indeed, real.

Homines in lupus mutari, the words rang in Frollo’s head. It did not stop there; accounts by Marie de France and Gerald of Wales both went on to describe varying behaviors of the creature, but concluded the same in that they did exist—living as any other animal in the forests, but real, nonetheless.

Surely there could not be any truth to these wicked tales, and Courtaud the wolf did not defy death to terrorize Paris. Besides, what would a wolf-man want in Notre Dame anyway?

X

Barely stepping across the cathedral threshold, Frollo was immediately pulled aside and met with the Archdeacon’s withering glare.

“What now?” the Minister asked curtly, offering his own irritable frown.

“Quasimodo is terrified of something,” Augustin began, voice low with concern. “He won’t tell me but he’s rattled beyond belief. He says he’ll only tell you. Anything you wish to share, Claude?”

The judge instantly detected what kept the boy awake again, cursing his brother and his damnable stories. “I think I have an idea,” he clipped as he headed towards the bell tower.

“Quasimodo,” he called out before hearing a shuffling noise coming from under the table. The boy crawled out from under, looking just as exhausted as yesterday morning. The judge’s heart momentarily filled with pity for the child.

“Another nightmare?” Frollo asked flatly. Inspecting the mess of scattered tools, a pungent smell suddenly wafted the judge’s nose. His dark eyes fell on a bucket aside, sneering at the sight of a pair of hose within. The boy detected his master’s disapproval and shrunk back as he waited for the retaliation.

His lips turned down, Frollo bitterly remarked, “Quasimodo, you’re much too old to have these kinds of accidents.”

“Master, you didn’t see it!” the boy piped up, terror written across his face. “Courtaud was here—a real-life werewolf was here last night!”

Frollo slumped down at the table and dragged a hand across his face, beside himself. “I’m sure,” he muttered, not at all happy to indulge the boy’s imagination again. “I’m in no mood to hear any more of these stories.”

The boy gripped at the hem of the judge’s robe. “Please, listen to me! It was here—I swear! Why don't you believe in them?”

"Because it defies reason! I believe true evil exists in the form of man and demons—not mythical creatures."

Quasimodo continued to blubber out pleas that his guardian believe him before the Minister slammed his hand against the table, announcing, “That’s it. We’re going to have a word with the Archdeacon right now and put this matter to bed!” With that, the judge pulled the boy along out of the bell tower, resenting that he had just walked up all these godforsaken steps.

With haste and nearly out of breath, Frollo tracked down Augustin and graced him with a look of pure irritation. “I need you to explain to the boy that there is no such thing as werewolves!”

Augustin blinked, visibly taken aback. “Werewolves?”

“Yes—people cursed and forced to take the appearance of a wolf. Tell him that they’re a legend and not to be feared.” Quasimodo, in turn, looked pleadingly at the Archdeacon as he waited for an answer. 

The man seemed to meditate on a response. “Of course…although Saint Augustine believed witches could turn men into wolves…”

Fear reignited, Quasimodo drew closer to his guardian. Frollo leered more intensely at the man, remarking, “But creatures like that can only be fiction, correct?” His flinty eyes darted to the petrified boy by his side.

The Archdeacon understood and nodded. “Absolutely. Quasimodo, they’re just legends used to warn us of the danger of witches and their powers. Church law states that anyone who believes in superstition is, unfortunately, a heretic.”

“But stranger things have happened, right?” the boy pointed. “Saints have survived much worse things than a wolf-man.”

“I…I suppose that’s true. If God willed a person to shapeshift—”

“It was here!” Quasimodo repeated, his tone uncharacteristically firm. “It was Courtaud and he was here last night! Jehan was right: werewolves are real and it’ll be back!” Before anyone could say another word, the hunchback took off in an awkward sprint through the nave.

Augustin stepped closer to the mute judge. “So that’s what has him spooked? He thinks he’s seen a monster?”

“Oh, Jehan filled his head with these images and now I’m left to pick up the pieces.” Frollo tiredly ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect himself. “I suppose I should go and have a word with him.”

“I agree. The best thing for Quasimodo right now is to know that these are simply stories and you wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

Frollo’s expression turned down at the words. “I was referring to my brother.”

Unseen to them, the boy had cowered far away to the end of the cathedral. Breathing heavily from his exertions, he rested against the wall, where on the other side lay the world forbidden to him. Quasimodo was utterly disheartened that his master did not believe him—It was here, he thought with defeat. But how could he prove that there was indeed a werewolf haunting the cathedral?

Without warning, a new scratching sound came from just behind the exit door beside him, making him leap to his feet. Again he heard the persistent scratching and envisioned the beast just a few inches from him, this wooden door the only means of protection.

Forcing bravery, Quasi stepped forward and lightly knocked on the door, half-expecting the creature to knock back. Instead, he was met with a warning growl and a louder scratching. Without waiting to see what it was, the boy again took off, this time in the direction of the bell tower.

X

The metal hinges of the door squeaked and scraped as Frollo rapped his knuckles against it, waiting for an answer. The only color in this drab and dingy city this time of year were deciduous leaves fluttering around the streets, littering Paris like little bursts of fire. Though the autumn wind also meant the Seine's merciless stench blew every which way, and continuously whipped the judge's chaperon sash.

Tucked away on the outskirts of the Latin Quarter sat a small house of two floors, supposedly won by Jehan in some gambling match or another. He didn’t care to elaborate and Frollo would not push.

Jehan finally appeared, eyes groggy and surprised to see the Minister standing before him. “You know, I can count on a single hand the number of times you’ve visited me here,” the young man remarked, blinking awake and brushing his blond curls out of his eyes. “What’s the matter? The boys and I had a long night at the Bull’s Head and I just want to sleep.”

"Of course, I'd hate to disturb your rest from all your other rest." Frollo brushed past him into the house, allowing a gust to blow in some brittle leaves. “Go and tell Quasimodo that your talk about werewolves and Courtaud was merely in jest. My attempts to dispel his fears seem to have fallen on deaf ears, and I suppose he needs to hear it from the horse's mouth."

"What makes you think I can fix anything?"

"For once in your life, show that you’re not a complete dolt and go set things straight! Because of you, now he thinks he’s seeing things lurking around the bell tower."

The young man folded his arms across his chest and leaned casually against the daub-lined wall. "Does he?" A laugh tore from his throat. "Did you ask him if his little gargoyle friends have seen anything?"  

Frollo never broke from his stoic expression. "Joannes," he hissed, stepping closer.

Jehan tried to compose himself, his face red with delight. "Let him believe there's a monster—a little fear is good for a boy. Besides, you coddle him too much."

“I don't believe I was asking.” Frollo's steely gray eyes pierced him with warning.

“I’m not going to lie to him about this: they’re out there—”

"Unless you're going to stay the night and keep watch with him, I suggest you step to it and speak to him."

“And if I don’t?”

Frollo stepped closer and frowned heavily. “Would a day on the pillory convince you?”

Jehan huffed with petulance, admitting defeat. "You have no sense of humor, you know that?"

X

“…so, if you haven’t heard it about a dozen times already, werewolves are not real,” Jehan grumbled as he sat across from the hunchback.

“You’re sure?” Quasimodo tested, apprehension still stark on his face.

“Yes, I'm sure—Claude says so, and he’s always right, isn’t he?” Jehan stifled much more caustic words against the Minister. 

The boy noted the faint smirk playing at Jehan’s expression. “You still believe in them, don’t you?”

Jehan shrugged. “Of course I do. I think they’re as real as you and me. And my brother says that now you’ve seen one for yourself, too. Is that true?”

Quasimodo’s eyes widened again. “Yes! Last night Courtaud showed up!”

The young man leaned closer and furrowed his brows. “He did?” Quasi answered with a frantic nod. “Alright, listen to me: I need you to tell me everything.”

Quasimodo went on to tell of the monster, from its gruesome growls to its ugly mug, and, finally, its distinctive bobtail. Fear gripped at the boy’s heart again as he remembered how the beast looked like it would devour him whole.

“It-it tried to grab me!” he described, nearly out of breath. “It made a sound that I’ve never heard before and just ran away.”

Jehan tapped a finger against his chin, deep in thought. Grimly, he uttered out, “Then…he might not be strong enough yet.”

“What…“strong enough”?” The boy gripped the edge of the table.

“Werewolves rely on the power of the moon. Since we just had a full moon a few days ago, he’s waiting on a new one—that’s when they’re at their strongest. It’s all spelled out in Gervase’s book: when that new moon rises, that monster might just be powerful enough to devour a full-grown man, let alone you.”

“Then…then how do I get rid of him?”

Jehan steepled his fingers together. “There’s no sure way to kill it, but you can drive him out. Maybe it requires an offering like the pagans do. Sometimes their gods require a goat, other times…gold and silver.”

“I need a goat?”  Quasimodo's brow creased, befuddled.

“Or gold and silver.”

“Then it’ll go away?”

“I’d say it’s worth a shot. But you’ve only got a couple of days before the new moon.”

“So, it's just hungry? What if I can’t find him anything?”

Jehan rose and shrugged his shoulders with nonchalance. “Then you’ll make a nice little snack for him, I suppose.” With that less than reassuring sentiment, the boy was left white as a sheet.

X

Quasimodo waited for nightfall with dreadful anticipation, again keeping his oil lamp and candleholders close. He couldn’t blame his master for forgoing their usual supper, as he had more than enough talk about werewolves for the day.

Knees drawn up to his chest, Quasimodo stared into the same spot of shadows and waited for the creature. Another hour or two ticked by before shuffling and scratching sounds woke the boy, and he was greeted with another rumbling growl.

"Courtaud?" the boy addressed, his voice barely a squeak. 

Quasimodo reached aside for something sitting in a basket and wedged between some leaves. Mustering up his strength again, he stepped lightly towards the creature waiting in the shadows, and delicately placed the offering between them.

The werewolf crouched, not willing to come into the scant light, and wrenched the object towards himself. Tossing the leaves away, a deep sniff was heard from its great snout as it inspected the treat.

“It-it’s smoked liver,” Quasimodo explained, not wanting to look the beast in its piercing white eyes. “If you’re hungry, I-I could—”

Before he could say another word, the beast’s claws moved in a frenzy as they tore the cut of meat apart before chucking them back at the terrified boy. Another spine-chilling snarl tore through the dark tower and Quasimodo understood.

“Y-you want gold?” he asked, shielding his face. “Or…or silver? I can give them to you.”

The werewolf cocked its head and offered a low growl, crouching as it now seemed to wait. Quasimodo nodded and zipped away, returning with a small canvas sack that rattled loudly.

“Here.” He placed before the beast a dazzling gold cup adorned with jewels, obviously a eucharistic chalice. Quasimodo began to lay out more trinkets, mostly finely finished gold crosses. When he emptied the contents, the wolf-man's long, furry arms reached out and gathered them all into his chest.

With one last snarl the beast hurried into the darkness, its treasure clanking rhythmically as he ran.

X

“Care to explain the mess?” Frollo asked coldly, noting the shredded pieces of meat littering the space.

The boy hurried to clean up the scraps, apologizing. “I-I tried giving some food to the wolf-man last night, but he didn’t like it.”

“Quasimodo, I am warning you: if I have to hear one more wretched word about werewolves, I will never bring you another morsel of food for the rest of my life,” Frollo drawled, his patience razor-thin.

"But-but yesterday I heard something downstairs, scratching at one of the doors.”

“Well, that doesn’t prove anything."

"He needed an offering so he'll stay away."

"This thing is a demon, not a god, and a fictitious one at that."

Quasi shrugged. "I brought him gold and silver."

The judge blinked, gawking at the child and his statement. "Gold and silver?  What sort of "offering" did you leave him?"

"Just...some things around the church."

Frollo paled and his fists instantly tightened. Now this irrational fear had run its course, despite his own recurring questions about the monster in name. "I see," he lowly started, seething with fury and eyes ablaze. "I suppose I will speak to the Archdeacon about that, and if indeed there is church property missing...my boy, I can't promise I'll show mercy for your naïvety."

“He might come back before the new moon if he didn't like his offering. Master, please, I beg you: stay here tonight and you’ll see that Courtaud is real!"

The Minister just imagined the humiliating confession to be told about these stolen objects and wanted to strike the boy. He had to show that this fear was baseless, once and for all.

"If my staying here will put your fragile, little mind at ease, then very well. We’ll see for ourselves that there is no such thing as werewolves.”

Chapter Text

“When was the last time you stayed the night in the bell tower?” Augustin pondered aloud as he followed the Minister up the winding stairs.

“I can’t recall. The Lord knows I’m not particularly thrilled about it,” Frollo bit. “I swear I’ll make Jehan pay dearly for poisoning the boy’s mind like this.”

As evening approached, Frollo decided that he would keep watch at the wooden table while the boy slept. Even though he would get less sleep than preferred, as long as the topic of werewolves never be brought up again.

“Master, did you read any of those books Jehan talked about?” Quasimodo piped up, wrapping his sheet around himself.

“I did; compelling reads, I admit.”

“What do they say? About werewolves?”

Frollo prayed in vain that the boy would just go to sleep already. “They all contradict each other and no writer wholeheartedly agrees with any other. Marie de France believes that they transform and may only change back by means of their clothes. Even if that is true, I wouldn’t dare give the shirt off my back for some demon! And Gerald of Wales believes that werewolves are descendants of pagan souls—those who denied Christian teachings. All things considered, not a word is to be believed. Besides, if they truly existed, one would assume there would be methods listed on how to kill it, but there are none.”

Quasi’s eyes still zigzagged around the darkening tower. “Courtaud still might come, just like last night.”

“For heaven’s sake, Quasimodo, just go to sleep!” All the Minister could look forward to were a few hours of sweet silence in this brisk tower, not at all holding his breath for Courtaud the wolf.

“Master…master!” Quasimodo’s voice was but a sharp whisper as he roused his guardian awake.

Frollo promptly shook himself to consciousness and instinctively batted the child’s hand away. “What? What now?” he mumbled groggily, cursing himself for falling asleep.

“I hear something,” the boy whispered, clinging closer. “There’s something scratching.”

“For goodness’ sake, it’s likely but another mouse.” Stiffly, the judge meandered to where the boy’s eyes indicated, barely searching for the source of the disturbance. “Look: nothing to see.” His gaunt features were stark against the surrounding darkness.

His ward, though, seemed unconvinced, peering past him and expecting the fabled werewolf to lunge at his master.

Facing the shadows now, Frollo raised his voice and called out, “Whatever evil is lurking here, I order you to begone! Away from the house of God!” Dead silence was the only response. “You see, my boy, nothing to fear.”

“He…he’ll be here. I promise he will.”

However, the rest of the night passed without another disturbance, leaving Quasimodo restless. Come morning he was simply embarrassed as Frollo leered at him with annoyance and red-rimmed eyes.

“Now, Quasimodo, will there be any more werewolf-talk in the future?”

The boy shifted in his spot, unable to meet his master’s gaze. “No, sir. Not at all.”

“And if for some reason you suspect another one has entered the bell tower, feel free to handle it alone.”

Quasimodo couldn’t quell the humiliation that gnawed at him the remaining day, wondering where the wolf might have gone. Perhaps Courtaud really was appeased with a few trinkets, or maybe his master was just that frightening. If there was any hope, Jehan was right and he wouldn’t have to fear this monster returning, especially with the new moon approaching.

X

“No, absolutely not!” Frollo barked, tearing himself out of his seat and squashing his hat down on his head.

“Please!” Quasimodo begged. “Master, it’s the new moon and that’s when they’re at their most powerful.”

As he cleared their supper, a heavy breath of resentment escaped the man's lungs. “Eight years and I've never struck you once, boy, but God help me. I think I’ve indulged your ridiculous fantasies long enough, and I’m not staying here again.”

“But we need to make sure that he's gone for good.”

Frollo's countenance was twisted in aggravation. “No! Jehan is right: Quasimodo, you’re eight years old and shouldn't be afraid of things that don't exist. When I was your age I had already seen men tortured and killed. That was more terrifying than any imaginary friend you’ve conjured up.”

Quasimodo stared up at his caretaker, gutted by the man's acerbic words. Unable to fight them, a couple of errant tears leaked from his eyes and a small choking sound wrenched from his throat.

Frollo looked down at the desolate boy, astounded that he would feel so strongly about this fabled monster. You're not his father anyway, Frollo thought darkly to himself. You have no real obligation to stand watch here for "Courtaud". Truly, why had he humored the boy so much on this? 

With clenched teeth and another roll of his eyes, Frollo warningly muttered, “One hour.” His ward gazed up at him in confusion and hope. “If that beast isn’t here in one hour, I’m leaving and you will never bother me about werewolves again. Understand?” The Minister set the hourglass utilized for lessons and took a seat, unflinching as they began to wait.

The hour ticked by and the pair were only met with silence, much to the boy's anxiety. With barely a word, Frollo grabbed an oil lamp and left.

He was drained from the whole day, and it'd be much too tiresome to ride back to the Palace of Justice now when it was dark. Perhaps Father Augustin wouldn’t mind if he took refuge in one of the spare cells.

Who knew how much time had passed before the judge woke up unexpectedly. He began to wonder if Quasimodo was still kept awake by his ridiculous fears.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so hostile towards him, a voice in his head raised. After all, the outside world is but a mystery to him. He truly does believe there are monsters. Perhaps he did owe the hunchback an apology for his brusqueness. With a groan, he forced himself to head back towards the bell tower.

To his surprise and relief, the boy was fast asleep, allowing for Frollo to set himself down back at his usual spot and try and get some sleep as well.

A clanking sounded off again, rattling them both awake and making Quasimodo scramble out of his bed, his red locks in disarray.

“That’s him,” the boy gasped, drawing closer to his guardian. “It’s Courtaud!”

Frollo’s brows raised. “I will admit that’s…that’s very peculiar. But I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.” Immediately after, the clanking sound got louder, followed by a pained groan.

“No! It’s him—I can prove it!” In a flash, Quasimodo barreled forward past his master and chucked a wooden pail over his head.

Whatever was there, it seemed to wail out in pain and was followed by a loud thud and crash.

“I got him! I got the werewolf!” the boy exclaimed with surprise and elation, prompting the Minister to hurriedly grab for one of the oil lamps. 

“I’ve told you already, Quasimodo, there’s no such thing—God in heaven!” Frollo balked as the light fell over the scene, nearly sending him backwards: truly it was a beast covered in fur, its face more hideous than anything carved into the stonework of Notre Dame.

“Quasimodo, stay away from that thing!” Frollo squinted to get a better look at this creature. Indeed the boy was correct in that it truly did look like a man-sized wolf, red tongue jutting out from his giant maw and sharp claws scraping against the wooden floor. From under its threadbare cloak, long arms stretched out awkwardly.

“You see, Master, werewolves are real! Jehan was right!” Quasimodo clutched the man’s robe cautiously. Another pained groan rumbled from the beast as he stirred. Upon closer inspection, Frollo noticed that the thing’s face seemed frozen.

“Wait a moment…” The Minister handed over the oil lamp to the boy and crouched down to the monster. With a slow hand, he wrapped his fingers around the beast’s ear and tugged swiftly. Rearing up, he bellowed with indignation, “For the love of God!”

Not bothering to be gentle, Frollo hoisted the young man up to his feet and gripped him by the wrists. “I should kill you!” he hissed, wanting only to wring his brother’s neck. Even Quasimodo could not stop the livid hatred adorning his misshapen face as he still hid behind his master.

“You’re the one responsible for all this foolishness?!” Frollo tested, shaking him.

“It was just a joke, Claude!” Jehan protested, his eyes dazed and trying to gather himself.

“Do you have any idea of what a task you’ve put me through? You were the one behind these disturbances?”

Jehan slumped his shoulders as he conceded. “Yes, alright, it was all me. And I didn’t think you’d be here tonight. Happy?”

Quasimodo piped up, “And you were the one growling downstairs?”

The younger brother drew his brows. “Downstairs? Why would I go down there in this thing?”

“But I…something growled at me, when I was near the back of the church.”

Frollo gripped him tighter. “Well…?”

Jehan was stunned. “Honestly, I didn’t go down there. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Go see for yourselves!”

“Perhaps we should.” Taking the oil lamp in his hand, Frollo ordered his brother and charge to follow him downstairs to the nave.

“Now, Quasimodo,” he began, his voice soft as to not draw any attention from the clergy keeping watch. “Show us where you heard this fabled growl.”

“At the south door—the one nobody goes through,” he answered as he led them, his thin arms wrapping around his frame as the chill set in. They came upon the deadbolted door and were met with silence. “It was making this scratching sound, at the door here.”

Frollo and Jehan exchanged doubtful glances, their features haunting as their lamp was the only light in this cavernous church.

“It was here,” Quasimodo protested.

“Well, there certainly isn’t any sound coming from it now, is there?” the Minister swiped. “And if wasn’t Jehan, perhaps it was merely the wind pressing on the door.”

Halfheartedly, Jehan cut in, “Maybe I just spooked you that badly, Quasi. Sorry about that.”

“Don't think you may just coast through with a few hollow apologies—”

Scritch, scritch, scritch…

The three gazed upon the door behind them and listened as the sound grated on their ears again. The Minister looked back at his brother instinctively, who muttered out assurances that he wasn’t responsible.

Quasimodo backed closer to the judge and whispered, “That’s the sound—the one I heard. What is it?”

“Yes, where’s your “reasonable explanation” now, Claude?” Jehan bit, taking cover behind his brother and trembling.

The Minister squared his shoulders and stepped forward carefully. “Remember,” he began as he placed a hand on the door. “No unholy thing may enter sacred ground.” Internally he rushed through a prayer before unbolting the door.

He was met with darkness outside the cathedral, as well as the sound of the Seine’s gentle current lapping nearby. He jolted at the rustle of leaves and another growl just beside him. Refusing to be victimized by something he could not see, Frollo stepped closer and nudged his boot against the bush adjacent to the doorway.

Out from the bush leaped a panting dog, white fur knotted and belly swollen, undoubtedly pregnant. She instantly turned back up at Frollo and bared her teeth, offering him a warning growl and making him recoil.

“A dog?” Quasimodo peered out from behind him. He had seen many of them of all shapes and sizes running amok in the streets below, and to see one up close filled him with intrigue.

Jehan pulled the boy back closer. “Quasi, don’t go near her—that bitch is ready to whelp and she’ll attack if she sees you as a threat!”

“He’s right,” Frollo added, slowly backing away into the cathedral once more but never taking his eyes off the animal. “She’s looking for somewhere to have her pups. No sense in all of us getting bitten, so we should leave her in peace.”

“Master, can’t we let her stay here?” the hunchback raised, his expression hopeful. “It's probably too cold out there and she’d like it better.”

“I’m not explaining to Augustin why some mutt has had her litter in the house of God.” A sharp set of barks made them all flinch, as the she-dog straightened her tail and inched closer to them.

"Back—everybody back in!" the Minister ordered, pushing the pair away from her and bolting the door back shut. As if on cue the dog started to scratch the door again, her yelps piercing their eardrums.

Exhaustion setting in their bones, the trio trudged back up to the bell tower once more with Frollo reminding the boy not to offer the dog any refuge. Quasimodo couldn't help but look back behind, wishing he could make a nice little place for her to rest.

“Well then,” Jehan began, his tone and expression light when they returned. “Mystery solved, I suppose.”

Frollo remained as hard-faced as ever. Without breaking from his gaze, the judge ordered, “Quasimodo, stay here and get some rest. Jehan and I need to have a very frank discussion.”

Frollo dragged the young man to one of the empty cells. “Care to explain?” He indicated the unsettling wolf mask before chucking it at the young man sitting across from him.

Jehan shrugged. “Woodcarver a few towns over; says he picked up the style from the Germans,” he explained. “I was planning on wearing it at festivals. You have to admit it's a lot scarier than its real head.”

Truly the wooden mask was the stuff of nightmares and incredibly lifelike, especially with the red-painted tongue carved out. “And the pelt?” the judge continued.

“My friend Pierre, “the Slaughterer” himself. How do you figure he got that nickname? He’s an expert hunter and had more than enough to spare, I just docked its tail to look like Courtaud's. You know, wearing this thing makes me feel like Saint Bartholomew." He scratched his head aggressively. "Although I think I may have gotten fleas from this thing.”

"And rightfully so. But the rest?"

Jehan simply tied the pelt down with twine and threw a cloak over to give it the appearance of man in a wolf's body. The paws: just work gloves tarred with animal fur and claws at the fingers, and much bigger and more threatening than the wolf's real paws. The bone-chilling roars and growls: merely Jehan’s own guttural effects, which left his voice hoarse and scratched. 

“An ingenious costume, I admit,” Frollo remarked, though his expression was anything but amused. “But the question remains…why? All that blathering about werewolves.”

“I heard about it from some traveler in the tavern and figured it could make for a good laugh, that’s all. And Courtaud's story just seemed to make it more believable.”

“And you targeted Quasimodo because…?”

Jehan’s lips quirked. “What was I supposed to do: scare my friends’ children? That’d just be cruel!”

The Minister restrained himself from swinging a fist across his brother’s face. “But that doesn't excuse the fact that you're too old to be playing such immature pranks, and on a child, no less. Why him, specifically? You may have scarred the boy for life, and I must be the one to see him through these nightmares.”

The young man’s eyes searched around the bleak space for an answer and his fingers tapped against the wooden grimace in his lap. Almost boredly, Jehan answered, “I thought it’d be funny.”

Frollo leered at such impudence. Does he honestly believe he can still get away with such childish antics?! His mind screamed as his fingers curled into a tight fist. “And is what he tells me true: that you tricked him into leaving out gold chalices and silver to “appease” this monster?”

Jehan cocked his head, feigning confusion. “What would a werewolf want with gold or silver? I sure as hell have never read anything like that in those books. I think he may have imagined that.” No way was he about to admit that Notre Dame's treasures had already been melted down and resold. "But he did try to bribe "Courtaud" with smoked liver."

The two brothers regarded each other with warring expressions, both challenging the other. Jehan looked as though he were fighting the urge to smile at his brother’s exasperation, biting the inside of his cheek to do so. 

“Why don’t we just regard this as a prank gone wrong and put it behind us?” Jehan chirped, rising from his seat and shaking out his curls. “We should all just go back and try to get some sleep—” He suddenly found his arm seized, the judge’s grip anchoring him here.

Stone-gray eyes boring into blue, Frollo uttered out lowly, “Oh, I have a much better idea…”

X

Jehan scrunched his eyes shut as he braved more projectiles. All things considered, he could have been pelted with worse than a few rotten vegetables. His legs were shaking and taut from his uncomfortable position.

“Alright, Claude—you’ve made your point!” he hollered pitifully before a soft turnip beaned him on the forehead. Jehan continued in his futile attempts to tear his arms free from his confines, but the pillory was more than sturdy enough to hold him.

It seemed that half of Paris had strolled by the cathedral to hurl their old produce at him. After all, the Minister made it very clear that he didn’t make idle threats.

Spitting out more garbage caught in his mouth, Jehan cried out, “How much longer do I have to do this?!”

Off to the sides, Frollo fed Romulus a handful of hay with an unperturbed air. “Just a few more hours,” he answered, dark lips turned up in a satisfied grin and patting the horse gently on its shoulder. To watch his brother at the mercy of the townsfolk almost made up for the hefty price paid for the church's stolen goods.

“It was a—” A limp head of cabbage exploded beside him, just missing Jehan's face. “It was just a prank!”

Unable to stifle a chuckle, Frollo then called out, “Happy Saint Andrew's Day!”