With grim determination, Remiel set about giving Xandi a proper burial. After the last mound of dirt was packed into place, he produced a worn, dog-eared bible and began reading the traditional Christian rites. Splashing the grave with a vial of water that had been blessed by the Pope himself, he nodded to himself, satisfied that Xandi's innocent soul would ascend unto heaven.
The village was mostly deserted now. Of its original population of thirteen, only four remained: Moirae, who was clearly mad; Unholy Potato, who was entirely, almost unhealthily, too obsessed with potatoes; himself, who he would be the first to call...eccentric; and Imogen. Of the four, she seemed to be the one who was the sanest, the most stable.
He had regained a bit of composure after having been proven right about Esoteric Myobi. He had been dead wrong about Aiden, but hopefully, by correctly identifying the second of the two werewolves, he had redeemed himself. For the past few days, he had been furiously taking notes, scribbling down who had voted for whom, and when. Hopefully, by using the deductive process, he could identify the last cursed creature before it became too late.
Back at his house, he licked the feather-end of his quill, dabbed it in a vial of ink, and wrote in his book:
"The strange man known as the Unholy Potato voted for Lucius Cornelius not once, but twice. He could have easily voted for Aiden, but did not. Also, he did vote for Myobi, if only out of a desire to survive. He is most likely innocent.
I have long suspected Moirae of deception, but she did vote early for Myobi, and did not change her vote. Also, Lucius Cornelius accused her before he met his end; however, this does not necessarily prove anything. Knowing he was doomed, he could have attempted to cast aspersions onto her, a tactic known as the Martyr's Gambit.
Imogen..." He paused, frowned, and stared at the page. After a moment, he wrote, "Imogen voted early for Lucius Cornelius, and although she did change her vote to Aiden on day three, she did not on day four. "
He put down his quill, and sighed, glancing at the Prussian pistol with its single silver bullet. He was no closer now to detecting the identity of the last werewolf than he had been before. Thus completely nonplussed, he decided to appeal to a higher authority for guidance.
"Our fazzer, whom art in heaven," he prayed. "Hallowed be zy name..."