A Bullet for a Werewolf

Books lined the study with a rich, dark mahogany desk standing in the center like a masterpiece of carpentry and artistic design. The desk's only blemish was the .45 Sig in its center. A small incense burner lay next to it, and scented smoke drifted into the air, giving the room a pleasant smell of sandalwood and leather.
I stood next to the desk and gazed out the large window. The sun drifted slowly down the horizon, and the beautiful Rocky Mountains grew dark as the light of day faded slowly.
Inhaling deeply, I let my eyes wander to the medallion whose chain hung off the side of a large book. One of the order's original members burned the image of a werewolf's claw over a full moon. It was the same symbol as the medallion.
The order was more than an organization that hunted the paranormal; we were also an academy. Part of my job involved training new people to keep the order going.
The Academy of the Wolf's Claw operated under the Order of the Wolf's Moon. It was what I did as I was part of both. When not teaching, I was hunting, but there were unfortunate cases when the hunt never strayed far from home.
My friend Damian came to visit. He was worried, and his eyes darted back and forth with fear. He rubbed his hands together as if to wipe whatever bothered him off his hands.
"Jason, I can't do this any longer," he said.
"I don't know if I can, Damian," I said, running my hand across the Sig.
My Sig was a black metal handgun. It was heavier than most, but it fits comfortably in my grip. The metal was smooth and cool, like a river stone or a shot glass of whiskey.
My hand felt for the trigger, caressing it gently before resting on my index finger. A man who doesn't know guns can't trust a gun worth its weight in gold. Both of my hands knew the grip of a gun like the back of my hand.
"Dammit. There are ways, and it'll take time," I said.
"We both know there aren't any. The one who made me a werewolf is dead. The curse doesn't die, and it never did. Both of us were taught that in the academy. You know this," he said, standing and gesturing widely.
I closed my eyes and tried to keep the tears from falling. "I know and teach others this very thing, and even science can't reverse it."
"You have to do it. I can't do it myself, I'm too much of a coward, and my sense of survival is entwined with my cowardice."
"The order is willing to leave you free to live as long as you don't kill anyone," I said.
"That's the thing. We both know that can always happen. The order will send the hunters after me. Don't let a stranger gun me down. You have to do it. We've been through too much."
The worst thing about the order was that very few of us knew who was in the organization. The chances of me getting the kill order for Jason was rare. It would be another agent, a stranger, that didn't know him. No emotional attachment means no second guess.
"Damian, I don't know if I can," I said.
"Please, Jason," he said.
I gripped the Sig in my hand. The pistol was heavy. It had a hard, unbending look, but the cold steel felt terrific to my touch. It was the perfect weight for my hands, and the weapon had an even balance forged in perfection. If the gun was a woman, she was a beautiful one.
Damian gifted me the gun when I graduated from the academy, along with a magazine of silver bullets. That's what made his request that much more complicated. The world spun, and I practiced the breathing I used in a fight to keep control.
"Will you do it, Jason?" Damian asked.
Sliding my hand down the barrel, I cocked back the hand. "Do I have a choice?" I said.
"No," he said, a growl escaping his lips.
"Is this what you want? There's no going back. Death is the end, Damian."
"We both know it beats living with a beast inside me. It's too late for me. Death was knocking on my door the minute the werewolf cursed me." Damian replied.
I sighed and turned, raising the pistol. "So be it."
My ears rang from the shot, and I didn't hear Damian's body fall. He was free now, and I prayed his spirit would rest, since his mortal self couldn't find any. 

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