He used the phrase 'feel like' because he had no supporting evidence.
He had guessed so by instinct.
He sensed a slight increase in ambient temperature and found his footsteps sounding heavier than usual. Nonetheless, all these might well result from his tense mind.
This feeling haunted him until he reached the Mani family's old home.
Endless suspicions welled up in Clayton, who was on tenterhooks about the trip.
Whatever, Joe Mani had invited all the trouble, yet he was compelled to defuse it; otherwise, grave consequences would arrive.
The mere thought of this boosted his appetite.
After becoming a Darkin, his inherent tendency changed into the opposite of a human being's.
All his negative emotions and tiredness would shift into his appetite, which would grow if unsatiated. Only gobbling up in his werewolf form could soothe him, or else he would feel constantly restless and uneasy. That explained the recent tenfold increase in his food expenditure.
Thankfully, he could afford such a large amount of meat. Otherwise, he might have already joined the werewolf fad of assaulting a ranch, as in legends, if not another one of hunting human beings.
Regaining control over himself, he opened the door with Joe's key.
As he pushed the door leaves apart, a dusty stream of air assailed his nostrils.
Four years ago, Clayton visited this place. Back then, his movement had been confined to the ground floor; he was unclear about the layout of the first and second floors.
At that time, Joe Mani was still waited upon by two maidservants. Yet, alongside his sale of 'Rusty Silver Coin', the two maidservants also vanished.
The sitting room, near the kitchen, claimed the east, while the bathroom occupied the west, close to the entrance.
The dust blanketed the floor like a flawless veil; evidently, none had come in recently.
Despite his previous visit, Clayton did not disregard the ground floor. But there was indeed nothing worth noting here.
The spacious sitting room echoed, with merely the most basic furniture, including a worn-out horsehair sofa set. Plates, bottles, and jars remained in place, some of which contained now-expired seasonings. However, the silver service was gone. Apparently, Joe had sold it off to raise funds for travel.
In a low cabinet beside a stove were some pots, which Clayton found unworthy of any heed.
So he left the kitchen and started up the opulent staircase with a rosewood handrail.
On the first floor, paintings lined the wall every few steps. Clayton was wearied by their sheer number.
The host of paintings ranged from landscapes to portraits, never reemerging in a subsequent frame.
Clayton came upon Joe's bedroom on the first floor.
Joe must have never returned after coming back to Sasha City, since the floor was dotted with mouse droppings and layered with dust.
A desk crowded the wall below a window. Head raised, one could take in the sight of, beyond St Alvin's train station, the towering smokestacks of parts factories spitting out thick puffs of smoke.
Those huge, steaming, and mechanical noises that carried here had distorted into a sound like the trumpeting of elephants.
Perhaps this was the very reason few would inhabit the neighborhood as they had before.
The window gaped, letting in stale air. The faded curtains danced like a shabby girl in midair, at the caress of the wind.
The bookshelves housed merely a few books- a volume of verse, a novel, and Joe's math textbook.
Things that existed seemed otherwise.
On the side table stood a photo frame. Clayton walked over, picking it up.
It could be seen in the photo that a man and a woman were holding in their arms Joe as a kid, who wore a broad smile. Perhaps the couple were Joe's parents, Joseph and Mavis Mani.
Clayton had seen neither of them in person, so he had no idea what kind of people they were.
Joe had rarely mentioned them. He vaguely remembered from Joe's talks that Joseph had lived with his wife in Saint Modred Parish most of the time to take care of his business, while Joe was babysat by some nannies.
The two generations lacked communication, so they were less intimate than normal parents and children.
This indeed smelled fishy.
Clayton calculated inwardly. Even he himself, initially a layman in the antique trade, had made enough money out of 'Rusty Silver Coin'. Let's say Joseph Mani was devoid of talent in business; he still would not leave Joe in such hard times as he was now.
Clayton had once heard that gang members would make a point of working in places away from their families.
Perhaps 'Rusty Silver Coin' was nothing more than an empty shell for shielding their true identities.
After putting back down the photo frame, Clayton searched under the carpet and the bed. All he had to show for it was a magazine that all teenage boys would stow away as a secret item, one hardly catering to a sophisticated taste.
He then went searching through the other rooms on the first floor, including the guestrooms, the bathroom, and the storeroom, but found nothing.
No rooms except Joe's contained things of significance.
All that remained were the most plain necessities, indispensable.
It was unknown whether the Mani family's decline had begun during Joseph's generation or whether Joe had sold off all the valuables to raise money for travel.
A dusty-faced Clayton strode from the storage room. His nose was protesting. The particles of dust had almost destroyed his sense of smell.
By now, only the second floor was unexplored.
As he ascended to the second floor, he found along the way that the wall-mounted paintings followed a diagonally upward line.
Once over the last step, he was greeted with a portrait-monopolized hallway; other types were nowhere to be seen.
Clayton knew his stuff about such an arrangement.
It meant that from here forward, each picture depicted one of the Mani family's direct ancestors.
Among them were the elderly and the young, male and female, all staring straight at the passerby before them.
Clayton walked down the hallway, breaking their lines of vision, while inspecting every room through its ajar door.
Amongst the rooms was a tremendous one occupying one-third of the second floor. The windows hid behind the curtains, and the sunlight that shone through the dirty fabric was diminished. An elaborately engraved double bed lay against the wall. By its side was a dressing table. From the ceiling hung a huge golden chandelier resembling an exotic flower, cradling tube-shaped candle holders in its bosom. Clayton found it hard to imagine how splendid the scene would be when it was lit.
This bedroom might have been the Mani couple's.
On the dressing table was a book. The poor illumination rendered Clayton unable to see the cover clearly.
He walked up and drew the curtains apart, letting the sunlight through.
When Clayton moved about, the chandelier diagonally above him gradually changed color. Without any warning, the tube-shaped candle holders spread outward soundlessly. Its surface was now graced with a red and black ringed pattern, evoking the image of some lethal, poisonous spider native to the West Continent.
As the tube-shaped holders hung down, the piping structure connecting the chandelier to the ceiling revealed its true form.
It was the blonde head of a young girl who was gripping a wooden wedge in her teeth.
Her azure eyes were riveted on Clayton's back.
Unwitting of this, Clayton was dusting off the book. When he scented danger, it was too late.
The sharp end of a jointed leg sliced through his calf.
He quickly rolled out of the way on the floor. Nonetheless, his right calf muscles had already been torn through, now bleeding profusely.
The gigantic spider with a girl's head sprawled on the double bed, giggling while observing him.
"Clara's wait has paid off! Clara is the smartest! Joe Mani has broken the agreement. He has entered the room! All his flesh is mine!"
Clayton hobbled into a shadowy place, dragging his injured leg behind him, before his body swelled, stretching his clothes into strips, revealing his majestic, muscular torso as a werewolf.
In the grip of both decaying and fresh hatreds, he parted his jaws, shouting furiously,
"I'm fucking Clayton!"
The two dark shadows immediately threw themselves at each other and got entangled.
Even though the room could be considered spacious, it proved not roomy enough for the two monsters.
The spider girl screamed, "No different! No different!"
Then, she raised her long, red and black ringed legs and directed them at Clayton, carving five or six deep cuts into his arm, while the other legs supporting her dug into the wood of the bed.
Clayton rivaled her in savagery, shielding her attacks with his side while cutting off four of her legs with a paw.
The transparent liquid spurting out of her stumps wet the dusty white bed sheet.
"Clara hurts so badly! So badly!"
The strange creature jumped back, attaching herself to the wall. Her stumps were twitching as white granulation tissues cropped up from the wounds before hardening into new legs.
The spider shook her girl's head from side to side. "But Clara isn't scared, because Clara is undead!"
The excruciating pain from his wounds had stimulated Clayton, who could no longer suppress his nature.
Now he was desperate to eat something, anything!
A spider with a human head looked not that bad.
Covered in black hair, his claws buried themselves into the wooden planks of the bed from underneath. Then, his brawny arms inflated once again. The moment he summoned up his strength, the double bed, weighing about six or seven hundred pounds, was lifted into the air, crashing toward Clara-- the spider on the wall.