Title: Trading Partners, Part Two of Four

Author: Emma

Characters: Canonical Torchwood Three members… sort of.

Rating: Some chapters definitely not safe for work.

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Summary: Torchwood Three goes chasing monsters, and Toshiko has a glimpse of her true inheritance
Author's Note: If you're keeping track, this is Countrycide. Although after this chapter, there should be no doubt!

            “So this is Cuddfadwn.” Owen jumped out of the SUV. “Doesn’t look like much, does it?”

            “Looks deserted,” Gwen said. “At this time of day there should be kids coming back from school, people bustling about getting tea ready, early arrivals at the pub, that sort of thing. There’s nobody here.”

            Jack pointed as a small building on the opposite corner of the green. “That’s the police station. Andy says the constable here is one Huw Davies, long timer here, respected by the locals. We’ll get whatever he can give us and go from there.”

            Huw Davies turned out to be a grizzled middle-aged man with more than a passing resemblance to the middle-aged Richard Burton. He had the look of someone who had taken a good hard look at the world and hadn’t liked what he’d seen, but laugh lines bracketed his mouth. Jack introduced himself and the others. He shook their hands and offered coffee, but they refused. When Jack asked about the victim, he answered readily enough.

            “Michael Oldfield found him. Scouser transplant, owns the organic farm two valleys over.  He was on his way back from the Saturday farmer’s market and saw this thing he thought was old clothes by the side of the road, but since everybody’s been on the lookout, well, he stopped to look. He drove the man to the clinic at Talybont. Called me from there. I took one look and shouted for the District Superintendent.”

            “What’s with this place, Davies?” Owen was standing by the window looking out on the green. “It’s empty.”

            The constable shrugged. “If you had children or old folks would you stay? Weres go for the easy kill.”

            “You think it’s werewolves, then?” Gwen asked.

            “What else could it be?” He made a vague pointing gesture. “There’s dozens and dozens of little valleys where they can hide and come out to hunt when they need to.”

            Jack had been studying the map tacked to the wall next to the window. “That’s the truth. So who stayed?”

            “What?”

            “Of the townspeople. Who stayed?”

            “The doctor, Peter Courtenay. He’s been here since I was a boy. Brother Numen, the local Celtic priest. He’s only been here a few years, but he’s stubborn as his ancestors. Looks like one of them, too, bloody Norman giant. My cousin Evan Sherman and his wife Helen. No kids, you see, and parents long dead. A few other men. That’s it.”

            “All right. We’ll want to talk to everyone. I know you’ve probably done it already,” Jack said with his best smile, “but a new pair of ears always helps.”

            “That’s true enough. Well, if you go three doors down, doctor Courtenay should be in his office still. Keeps long hours, he does. Has done it since I was a kid. Brother Numen is usually in the church until late and then goes off to his cottage.”

            “Thanks. We’ll probably see you later.”

            “Yeah.”

            As they left the office, Gwen grabbed at Jack’s arm. “There’s something wrong,” she whispered through pale lips.

            “What is it?”

            “I can’t see anything.” She gripped her Eye amulet. “It’s like someone has thrown a blanket over my senses.”

            “All right. Let’s talk to the doctor and the priest and then we get out of this place.” He sniffed the air, a bit, Gwen thought, like a bloodhound. “We can stay the night in one of the hotels in Crickhowell.”

            They found the doctor in his office, sitting comfortably with his feet up on the desk, reading a medical journal. He was a youngish man, probably in his forties, with a long, mournful face and beautiful grey eyes. He waved them to chairs and looked them over with a happy grin, as if examining his favorite specimens.

            “Torchwood! And Huw called you in? Good man, Huw. He always knows when he’s outmatched.” He threw the journal he had been reading in a pile of others. “So what can I do for you?”

            “At this moment we’re just picking people’s brains, doctor.” Jack said. “Anything strikes you odd or strange about this?”

            “Everything, really. I know people keep on insisting that it must be a were pack, but I have never heard of one that hauled off its kills. Kill, eat, and run, that’s how weres operate. Or at least, that’s how they did it in my neck of the woods.”

            “Which is?”

            “Yorkshire. Beverley. Had always wanted to practice medicine in interesting places. Wales was meant to be an interim stop and off I would go to Egypt or the South Pacific. Came and stayed.”

            “Wales does that to you,” Jack nodded. “I’m living proof. Anything else, doctor?”

            “Not really. Without a body, there’s nothing a medical man can say.” He picked up a gold letter opener and flipped it over and over as he spoke. “The man they found, the survivor. Is he all right?”

            “He’s alive but his mind is gone.” Jack said. “No possibility of recovery.” He stood up. “We won’t take up any more of your time, doctor. Thank you.”

            They walked out at an easy pace and headed for the Church. As soon as they were out of sight of the main street, they broke into a gallop, crashing through the lychgate and running up the path to the tiny porch.

            “There is no way,” Gwen gasped, “that Hew Davies knew that man when he was a child.”

            “Monsters with human faces, remember?” Owen said. “Let’s try to find the priest and get the hell out of here.”

            They searched both the Church and the small cottage behind it and found them empty, although there were signs of someone having made a hurried exit not too long before.

            “I think we should take the hint,” Owen said. “I noticed a lane that leads back to the green from that end of the churchyard. It’s getting dark, so we should have a chance. Let’s go, yeah?”

            They ran down the lane, between rows of shuttered cottages and dying gardens. As they emerged into the green they heard the first sounds of pursuit and saw the lights of torches. There was no way they could reach the SUV.

            “Into the woods,” Jack said quietly. “We’ll be harder to find.”

            They veered off and made for the line of trees on the hill beyond the last row of cottages. Running men followed, shouting and cheering, almost as if it was all a grand festival. The noise and flickering lights left them disoriented. Gwen gasped for air but kept going; at one point, she tripped, but Owen hauled her up and pulled her along. Jack brought up the rear, gun in hand.

            They almost made it, but as they passed a large shed on the side of the last cottage, men burst out of it, carrying quarterstaffs and clubs. Gwen felt one of the staffs connect with her ribs, and, as she went down, a heavy boot kicked her on the side and another staff slammed into the back of her head.

            When she came to, she was in the dark. She was resting against something human; as it moved and groaned she recognized Owen.

            “Owen, what happened?”

            “You mean after they beat the crap out of us? They dragged us here. You and me, anyway. They couldn’t find Jack.” He coughed. “God, that hurts. The doctor was really pissed off, told them to go find Jack and not come back until they had him. Hold on, I think I can reach the light. Somewhere here, yes… shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

            Gwen didn’t even have air in her lungs to swear. The room – it looked like someone’s kitchen – was filled with body parts. Recognizably human body parts, hanging from hooks, lying on counters neatly wrapped in plastic, floating in pots filled with water. Blood smeared the walls and the ceiling; she could smell it, sickly sweet and cloying, with an odd note of sage and lemon.

            “Holy Aranrhod protect us, Holy Don protect us, Holy Cerridwen protect us. What is this place?”

            Owen gave a sardonic laugh. “It looks like a butcher shop to me, cariad.” He sniffed one of the pots. “And that’s dinner."