What would Groner want him for? Clayton felt unsure.
But he hoped this did not involve Julius.
Having shown him to a small room, Philip knocked on the door and announced Clayton's arrival before leaving alone.
Walking in, Clayton saw the green-haired senior, now seated behind a study desk, trying to light his smoking pipe.
Despite numerous strikes of a match, his attempt to produce a plume of fire proved futile. Eventually, he gave it up.
With the smoking pipe dangling from his lips, he fixed his gaze on Clayton while saying,
"Mr. Bello, you're something special."
Blown away by what sounded like a compliment, Clayton aired his guess right off, "Because I have beaten up your son?"
Groner waved. "Don't let Julius disturb our moods. He has thirty-two virtuous older siblings, but has drawn little from them. Even his nephew has outclassed him. Now I only wish that when I see his corpse, it is not tossed in some alley awash with filthy water."
There is a limit to how much one can love.
When his seventh child toddled around, it occurred to him that he had already lost the sentiment named 'parental love'.
Groner calmly accepted this aspect of reality.
Clayton failed to see through Groner's inner thoughts but was left without much of an alternative.
"Alright, why did you call me here?"
"I heard that you are a retired veteran. Have you killed anyone?"
Clayton had never hidden this. It was far from a secret.
He had gone to the Retired Officers' Club and the Association of Mothers of Soldiers to make donations, though few knew where he had served.
"After all those years as a soldier, had I not, it would be too weird."
"Great. I can tell. You have adapted to your werewolf body pretty well, and your strength far surpasses a regular newborn's. You must have been a strong warrior even before breaking the ancestral seal."
Groner gave a satisfied nod. "Here's an assignment for you, to become a constable, that is, with a weekly salary of eight pounds. Your duty is to train some people in using a gun and to head a team dealing with or taking back newborns."
But Groner had taken little consideration of Clayton's opinions about the arrangement. The werewolf was loath to oblige. "I can't see any benefit from doing your bidding. I am not short on money. There are lots of people here today, aren't there? Some must be glad to accept such a high-paying job."
When a fight broke out, Clayton also risked exposing himself, which was quite unnecessary.
He believed that only Gilead's type, whom people forgot once separated from, suited the job best.
" *** said that you are a self-proclaimed pacifist."
Groner mentioned a name that Clayton forgot about upon hearing it. He had little impression of it, if any. But the self-proclaimed title sounded faintly familiar. He remembered having recently talked of something similar.
He soon realized that here was a certain entity's marvelous ability at work.
"Yes. Given your knowledge of this, I surmise you could see how unfitting the job is for me."
Groner signaled for Clayton to take a seat and pushed a box of cigarettes across the tabletop, but soon pulled it back.
"Sorry, I have forgotten that cigarettes would disrupt your sense of smell."
"Actually, it is not that serious."
Clayton rebutted but did not really accept the offer.
He had a troubling, sure intuition that the other party would be able to persuade him, yet the way that would unfold eluded him.
The senior let his back sink into the plush backrest, exhaling slowly.
"Precisely for your adherence to peace, good financial shape, and prowess in combat, you're cut out for the job."
"I don't follow your logic."
Clayton stared transfixed into the Elder's eyes, but captured in their depths no traces of skepticism or mockery.
Nonetheless, this merely reflected Groner's sincerity at the moment.
Sincerity and kindness are not synonyms.
"You know when and where to hold yourself back."
Groner returned Clayton's gaze, as though having happened upon some ever unknown treasure.
"Just because of this?"
Clayton almost laughed out loud. The rarity of this quality was lost on him.
Groner didn't laugh. Instead, he put an earnest question to the young man who had lately set foot in a new world.
"How have you felt since becoming a Darkin?"
"Nothing to be proud of."
"Because of just this," Groner remarked.
"You and those gentlemen take no pride in it. You have a fortune and hold a high station each. Turning into what you are now has flawed you. It might bring some benefits, but it also threatens to strip you of your current wealth and social standing once exposed. Such a loss far outweighs the benefits. So, who do you think would see it as a beneficial change?"
Clayton had caught a sliver of his meaning. With a slight frown, Simon's image crossed his mind.
"Those poor and humble."
"Yes---- poor people." Groner let out a sigh, confirming, "Their lifestyle has shaped their preference for changing their situation using force, and they don't fear exposing themselves. The possibility of being wanted is nothing to them. What they lay eyes on is confined to stuff within immediate reach, and their envy and hatred toward the upper-class gentlemen solidifies with each passing day. Unfortunately, they are the majority of these newly recruited."
"As the Dark Moon approaches, their number is increasing day by day. Their risk-taking would blow our cover sooner or later."
The consequence of being revealed was imaginable. Even though most people joked about Darkins' existence, once Darkins were noted, especially in a crime scene, they would undoubtedly seek help from the authorities and the Church.
Moreover, Darkins' feuds with the two forces had historical precedents. A war might well break out at the slightest misunderstanding in the coming days.
"This is bound to happen," Clayton commented, taking a pessimistic view.
"But we're working to postpone its occurrence," Groner said. "All we need is a bit of time and support."
"Before this year, the membership count of the Council had been floating around three hundred. However, as the Dark Moon approaches, sixty newborns have sprung up within half a year, not counting those that escaped our notice. If we fail to gather and educate them in time, in mere years, Sasha City would be infested with their gangs and mob brotherhoods, shattering our peaceful life here."
Clayton rubbed his temple. He had never expected that Groner would suddenly discuss such a grand subject.
"Does this have anything to do with your asking me to join as a constable?"
"Too many missing person cases would draw attention as well. And we do need to cement our presence by recruiting more to remain competitive with organizations in other cities. So, we plan to admit as many of them as we can while urging policymakers to invest more in poorhouses and to offer poor people jobs that sustain a normal life. This way, they wouldn't commit crimes. This might sound dumb, but it could work. As you can see, though Sasha is nowhere near rich, poor people here are better off than elsewhere."
Clayton had sensed the past half year's changes. The food the Saint Suliac Parish poorhouse provided even contained a little minced meat, and no overnight line was seen at its door.
But he had never supposed the credit fell squarely at the Council's feet.
Groner offered an elusive smile. "But most of my subordinates are already on other jobs. Those currently handling this perform poorly. Some lack patience in subduing newborns. There are also some new recruits in fear that newborns would contend for their jobs. In short, for various reasons, they work more like an executioner than a constable. Dealing with those grotesque bodies also puts our collaborators at risk."
He made a point to praise Clayton, "But you have none of those reasons. I believe you would bring back as many of them alive as you can. *** said that you are a virtuous man."
"He holds me in too exalted regard," Clayton answered coldly. He wasn't one to be easily swayed.
Groner hadn't been pissed off by his behavior, but instead added yet another condition on top of all.
"Should you agree, I will tell you the number and whereabouts of the Holy Grail Society envoys."
At once, the werewolf's yellowish-green pupils constricted. He was sure that he had never shared this matter with anyone else, so it was evident who the leaker was.
The Council evaluator whom he was unable to remember!
"He said this would be a secret!"
"Even now, it is, but one between you and me."
Groner took out a monochrome picture and placed it on the table. It showed footprints in the dirt, the product of Clayton's jump from the clock tower after he sniped at the harpy.
Such footprints could come from none but a werewolf.
"Compared with the Holy Grail Society, we are a latecomer to the city, so we know little about their history with the Mani family, and their earlier agreement gives us no standing to interfere in their affairs. But if there has been some bad blood between our new member and them, then that is beyond our scope." He was hinting at something.
Clayton pocketed the picture without a word.
"By the way."
"What?" The senior showed a bewildered expression.
"Why would you want the Holy Grail Society's men to die?"
Clayton shot a probing look at the old man. He scarcely believed that such a petty favor could pay for the intel of the envoys from another almost equally powerful organization.
Unless they harbored killing intentions, yet certain rules prohibited the act.
Detecting Clayton's certainty, Groner immediately changed his facade.
"That's not something you need to know."