Taming the Little Wolf
However, upon returning to the West End tavern managed by Phileas Fogg, the first problem James Moriarty had to tackle was taming his newly acquired wolf pup. Of course, he knew this would take a long time. Even domesticating a dog required considerable effort—what more a pup not yet free of its wild instincts? But that was precisely what made it satisfying. Perhaps all the more so because he'd brought her home on a rare half-impulsive whim, so unlike his usual self.
Above all, the reactions of those welcoming the professor and Fogg upon spotting the wolf pup were immensely gratifying.
"F...fuck, what the hell is that, Professor?!"
"Th-there's no way something like that exists! It's Satan's spawn, made by some devil bastard! H-how can a human head have animal ears?! Those... those ears! That tail! Kyaaack!"
Those who could be called the organization's mid-level executives all reacted similarly. It was so uniform that for a moment, Moriarty wondered if they'd rehearsed it with Fogg. However, the ones left at the tavern weren't mages like Fogg, so they had comparatively little knowledge of non-humans. They clearly had no idea of the pup's exact nature.
Even so, they all gazed at the wolf pup Moriarty had brought as if beholding something ominous and terrifying. The wolf girl, standing quietly by Moriarty's side as if accustomed yet dissatisfied with such stares, bared her fangs and growled. In a rare show, everyone made a huge fuss, pretending to be gripped by fear. It was like watching third-rate theater actors hamming it up.
But Moriarty didn't stop them. Perhaps each of those reactions would leave a scar on the girl's heart. No, it surely would. Moriarty was emotionally numb and cold, but that didn't mean he couldn't read others' feelings. If he wanted to open the door to her heart, treating her not as a monster but as a girl like any other might be the right approach.
But he didn't. He simply enjoyed his subordinates' reactions while observing hers. He approved. It was exactly as it should be. He'd brought the girl to make her one of his limbs, and for that, she needed to be an object of fear to others. She already possessed that quality in abundance.
Of course, the road ahead was long. Unlike at first, Moriarty now understood why the wolf girl had been so docile the whole way back. And he knew that reason lay not with him, but with Fu Manchu. He didn't like it. But he had the leisure and magnanimity to tolerate fools' foolishness, and he believed people could be reshaped through education. He planned to slowly teach her who the true object of fear was, who she must obey—the alpha of wolves.
"Mac, take her to Jenny and tell her to wash this little wolf pup first. She stinks—give her a proper scrubbing."
"Grrrrr! Yap! Yap!"
"Sh-she won't bite, will she, boss?"
"You're scared of a bite when you sharpen your knives constantly? Take her already. And little one, we'll educate you step by step, but if you're human, you'd best speak like one. If you're a beast... well, you'll need the rod."
Moriarty handed the girl off to Mac, the knife-man idly playing with his blade nearby, and Mac freaked out, whining complaints. The wolf girl growled again, as if protesting Moriarty's words. But he brushed off Mac's dramatics, shoved her toward him, and gazed down coldly as he spoke. Did she sense something in that demeanor? She hesitated, then whispered in human speech.
"I... don't smell."
"No, you reek to high heaven. The fur, maybe? If you want to stay under me, you'll keep clean at all times, little one. Take her, Mac. Tell them to wash the tail thoroughly too."
With that, Moriarty ordered Dodger, who sat beside Mac, to go out and buy clothes suitable for a girl. Dodger vanished outside in a flash. It took some time for the girl to finish washing with Jenny's help, so Moriarty sat and issued a few orders for the tasks ahead. His gathered subordinates were a motley crew. True to their street-hardened lives, many looked rough from the outset, some boasting hulking builds or savage faces that even Moriarty couldn't match.
Yet they all followed the professor's commands like docile sheep heeding their shepherd. Fogg spoke up again to the professor.
"So, Professor, you're really planning to raise that little one?"
"I told you—I'm raising her as my secretary. Secretary兼bodyguard."
"You seem set on it, so no need to argue, but really? If you just want a werewolf, wouldn't kidnapping or hiring one be better? Our funds are good."
"Fogg, I hate repeating myself. To truly make her my limb, I need to raise her from a pup. And it's not a problem if she's weaker than a full werewolf—we're humans, aren't we? We use tools. Her brains... well, with proper education, she'll be usable."
People are idiots anyway. Moriarty didn't voice the afterthought. It was too obvious. The only non-idiots were himself, Sherlock, and that child. Above all, having a secretary who could sometimes manage and lead the entire organization in his stead wasn't a tall order. His new wolf pup seemed to have decent instincts, pride, and spirit.
With his immediate tasks calculated, a brief idle moment arose. Moriarty slyly pulled out his pipe and began packing it with tobacco. Naturally, Fogg waited beside him, a flame flickering at his fingertip. Soon, smoke filled the tavern. Only then, as if given permission, did the others—who'd hastily stubbed out their smokes when the professor returned—stealthily light up fresh ones.
Even after Artful Dodger, the pickpocket in charge of West End's beggars, rushed back with several high-quality dresses suitable for a girl and delivered them to Jenny inside, more time passed. Jenny emerged, trembling, with the well-dressed wolf pup in tow. Some of his lecherous subordinates sighed wistfully for a moment.
But they soon recalled her beastly traits and shuddered involuntarily. To Moriarty, it was an incomprehensible idiocy. These perverts, stuffed with twisted lusts, acting as if a girl with mere wolf ears and tail was Satan's blasphemous spawn? Utterly baffling.
Still, he could forgive their initial reactions. Even dirty, it had been predictable—but clean and dressed, the wolf pup was a pretty girl whose face alone could tempt anyone. Despite her street urchin life, she boasted silky golden hair with a pearl-like sheen and jewel-bright blue eyes—a look sure to appeal to Englishmen. She evoked his first disciple Sherlock, whom he still missed, promising a similar brilliant future.
She said ten years old, so one year younger than Sherlock.
Recalling the personal details Fu Manchu had kindly provided about the wolf, Moriarty beckoned. Jenny cautiously patted the girl's back and led her forward. The pup was delightfully simple. Like anyone, she seemed pleased at finally getting a proper wash after so long, unwittingly wagging her tail. The fluffy golden tuft smacked Jenny behind her, but Jenny didn't dare show her fear.
Yet facing Moriarty again, the girl scowled fiercely on purpose. A petty rebellion: I had no choice but to follow you, but I won't acknowledge you as superior.
"No name, right, little one?"
"Grrrrrr!"
The girl bared her teeth again. But suddenly, she flinched under the frail human's cold gaze. Strange. With her strength, she could crush him easily. Displeased at her own flinch, she recalled his words and belatedly spoke human tongue.
"...None."
"Good. As your new master, I'll give you one. Hm..."
A brief deliberation. Foolish, perhaps, but Moriarty felt an odd conviction that it was her destined name. He uttered it.
"Come to think of it, we have a dead man's name and identity on hand for future use. Perfect for you. From now on, you're Sebastian Moran—Colonel Moran, little one."
"...I'm a girl. Don't like that name."
When he said he'd name her, Moriarty noticed her ears perk up. Despite her facade, living nameless must have bothered her. But displeased with the odd choice, she bared her teeth.
Futile tantrum. He was her master. His watching subordinates might find it strange but wouldn't dare speak against him.
"That's life, Moran. You didn't choose to be born as you are, did you?"
"Grrrrrrrr!"
Reverting to wolf, she advanced threateningly, fangs out. Moriarty leisurely puffed his pipe and exhaled smoke at her. She coughed, glaring, but held her ground. Not out of fear of the frail man. She sensed his subordinates stirring for "emergency" response.
Moran couldn't understand. The frail man wasn't strong like Fu Manchu. Why did they follow him? Too young to hide her thoughts, she blurted the question.
"I don't follow people weaker than me."
"That's why you'll follow me, Moran. I'm stronger than you."
Moriarty chuckled, as if at a amusing joke.