11. SKIN TO BONE

 

I find Marrock on his own in the great room, standing with his back toward me as he gazes out a window at the rising sun. His hands are clasped behind his back, his feet spread shoulder width apart, like a soldier at ease. He’s dressed in a tailored black pinstripe suit. He doesn’t have to turn around for me to know that he’s wearing a silver tie with a floral pattern embroidered on it in a violet thread, because I’m wearing exactly the same outfit. The suit was left on my bed for me while I was out with the Wilds last night. I’ve worn uniforms before, at school, but this is different. This is more akin to being invited to stand in at a wedding last minute. And here I am without a plus one.

Marrock cocks his head slightly as I enter the room. “You don’t take direction well, do you?”

“I’m a leader, not a follower.”

He glances over his shoulder. “That why you’re wearing the monkey suit?”

“That’s what it takes to live in this Nineteen Eighty-Four world of yours, isn’t it?”

His shoulders tense, then he brings his feet together and turns on his heels to face me with military precision. “You’ve been out here the whole of not even one day and you think you got it all figured out?”

“Not even remotely,” I answer, “but I do think your system isn’t everything you claim it is. You say there are seven territories. All I see is a zoo — only your animals aren’t animals.”

“You want to go hug it out with them?” Even though we both know it’s a rhetorical question, he leaves enough of a pause for his words to sink in.

“Keeping them in the dark about the outside world isn’t going to do them any favors when the Luparii come calling,” I note. “And when they do this sanctuary will become a hunting reserve to them. Open season isn’t as far off as you’d like to think.”

He doesn’t say a word, just stands listening with an amused expression. I’ve probably said too much. Even after I’m done, he’s quiet and just grins smugly. Just when I’ve had about enough, he says, “You heard of Sun Tzu?”

My head rattles at the sudden change in tack. “Sure. The Art of War.”

“Yeah. He was one of the greatest military minds any civilization’s ever known. You know how he came to serve his king?”

I shake my head.

“The king had heard about him and wanted to test out his abilities. So he challenges Sun Tzu to train his harem, of all things, and turn them into soldiers. All 180 of them. Tells him to treat them no different than regular soldiers. Challenge accepted, Sun Tzu divides the women into two companies. The command of each troop goes to the king’s two favorite concubines. Sun Tzu explains the commands for marching, but when the drum signals are given they stumble around and burst out laughing like it’s a big joke. So he says to the king, ‘If the orders aren’t clear, it’s the general’s fault.’ Sun Tzu repeats his explanation. He’s real clear this time, but when the drum signals are given, they just laugh again. So this time he says to the king, ‘When the orders are clear but not followed, it’s the officers who are at fault.’ Sun Tzu takes the king’s two favorites — the ones he made commanders — and has them beheaded. After? The rest of the troops obey his orders to the letter.”

“Wasn’t the king pissed?” I ask, pulled into the story in spite of myself.

“Sun Tzu was doing what he’d been commanded to. The king couldn’t stomach watching the rest of the demonstrations. In the end, he gave Sun Tzu command of his entire army.”

The story, of course, isn’t just a tale meant to entertain me. My mind searches for the intended meaning. “What exactly is the moral? That the Wilds are dispensable to you? You already proved that last night when you almost allowed the sacrifice of a child.”

“Figure it out, kid. What kind of leader are you? A king who gives orders for things he can’t stomach doing himself or a general who does what needs to be done no matter the consequence. The rest falls into place.”

Before I can even think to reply, Esrin’s heels announce her approach. She enters the room, her dress made of the same shimmering fabric as our ties. The strapless top hugs her torso but then fans out into a flowing short skirt constructed from layers of an airy silvery fabric. I was wrong about this situation. Forget wedding, it’s more like going to someone’s prom. Her henna tattoo covers all of her exposed skin, more elaborate than any I’ve seen before but too innocuous to mean anything of great significance. The fact that she’s inked in henna means she wants to make a show of being a pack leader but can go back to her day job after all is said and done here. Her bodyguards follow her, suited up like Secret Service again. Amara distances herself further behind them. Her outfit matches Esrin’s, the violet and silver bringing out the contrast of her pale skin and dark hair. Even if she weren’t so clearly on her own she would stand out.

We make our way in a bizarre procession to the Coinneachadh, strolling the woods in prom wear toward the Big Top. The clearing is now crawling with werewolves. The other packs have arrived, sent here by private transportation at the expense of the Founders. Some are brawling as wolves but many are in their human form, dressed in jumpsuits of different colors. It’s a diverse crowd, but they all have something in common. There are very few among the Wilds who are much older than me, and none as old as Amara. It is strange not seeing older alphas. I’ve watched enough Discovery Channel to know that survival of the fittest means there should be a lot more middle-aged werewolves among the Wilds. Esrin wasn’t kidding when she said the majority of those who left the Old World were young themselves.

I can sense the aggression and tension in the air as we walk toward the Big Top. Exhibitions of physical strength are what they’re all here to see, and many are so raring to go that they can’t restrain themselves before the actual competition. Fights break out all around us and draw small crowds of spectators, but the combatants are careful to stay deferentially out of our path. The Founders pass out their logo temporary tattoos to the kids, as I suspected they would. Propaganda for the youngest among the Wilds. Rather than flock in behind the gathering crowd waiting to be seated inside the tent, we’re escorted to the opposite end to a staircase that brings us into a luxury box, like at a sporting event. We’re in a carpeted room atop a scaffolding platform with club chair seating facing the arena. I have a clear view of the rafters set up inside the tent that form a ring around the central grassy terrain below. I’ve been to a circus and nothing here resembles one. There’s no smell of roasted peanuts, no carnival barker, nothing that reminds me of school visits to “The Greatest Show on Earth.” Instead, breakfast hors d’oeuvres are spread out on a buffet table behind us. There are silver dollar pancakes dusted with icing sugar, bite-sized fried chicken sitting atop tiny waffles, espresso shots and mini doughnuts. Basically small versions of all the kinds of food I loved as a kid and all the kinds that Amara turns her nose up at for lack of nutritional value. I scarf down my first meal of the day and scan the arena below. The rafters are set up so that there’s ample space allotted between each of the seven packs of Wilds. The ambiance is more like a football game, in a way. Even in the absence of alcohol there’s no lack of jeering between opposing sides. They’re drunk on animal aggression and it’s probably only a matter of time before more fights break out in the stands. Even though only one pack is competing for leadership, some of the spectators wave flags and banners while others have on face paint that could pass as team colors.

“Fifty K on the tall one there, on the left,” Esrin starts, pointing. The bodyguards instantly perk up to check out the contender. “Or is there something more interesting we can substitute as the stakes?”

She looks at me as I cram a waffle into my mouth. When I meet her steady gaze, I chew slowly to prolong my response time. There was a time not so long ago when I wouldn’t have clued in to the meaning behind her suggestion. She would consider the Wilds below to be beneath her, the bodyguards are probably not so distant cousins, and Marrock is ... well, Marrock. Esrin probably doesn’t have many opportunities to find a suitable partner. It’s interesting. Not the proposition of becoming her mate — I have zero interest in that — but the idea that she thinks of me as equal enough to even consider.

It’s Marrock who intervenes on my behalf. “You got an unfair advantage.”

“I like having an unfair advantage. Must we always play by the rules?”

“That’s why we have them.”

The captain says nothing more and returns his attention to the crowd below. I’m glad he jumped in but can’t help but wonder why. Nothing more is said on the subject for now. The spectators in the stands have been seated for a good half hour at least, and now a low thrum begins to build. It starts in the section wearing the navy blue of the Appalachian pack and carries around the arena like the audio version of a Mexican wave. The Wilds are stomping their feet on the boards. The shock waves rattle beneath my feet. Esrin smiles like a wolf that just swallowed small prey before Marrock takes his seat. We all follow his lead as a group of the Appalachian Wilds breaks apart from their larger pack and descends into the center of the arena. I’m assuming they’re just the ones who are willing to compete for leadership. I count eight in total, quickly recognizing Ben among them. Esrin stands front and center in our midst overlooking the Coinneachadh with a microphone in hand. The thunder of their feet stomping reaches a fever pitch as the Wilds grow impatient. All eyes turn in anticipation from the competitors to her, but she waits. She holds up a hand and the crowd grows silent. Her regal voice carries throughout the massive tent.

“Ludi incipient.”

Amara’s body goes rigid as the crowd explodes in a ferocious frenzy. I lean over to ask what it means, but I don’t need to.

“Let the games begin,” Esrin translates into the microphone.

The roar from the crowd grows louder still as the Wilds below shift on the field into a circle of pacing, snarling wolves. My back pocket buzzes from a text. I discreetly pull it out and look at the screen, but it’s not from Madison. It’s a message from an unknown sender that reads It’s a trap. Unsure of what else to do, I angle the screen toward Amara while scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. Marrock must sense my concern. Our eyes lock for a fragment of a second and he turns to whisper to Esrin. Amara rises silently and pulls me up to my feet. We attempt to make our way out of the luxury box and outside, but I stumble over the silvery shoes she’s abandoned on the floor. Esrin is about to say something, but Marrock — who’s been looking at the field through a pair of digital binoculars — stops her.

The captain utters the last word I want to hear. “Luparii.”

We take advantage of the confusion to escape the luxury box and race down the stairs. Reaching the grass meadow below, I slip out of Amara’s grip and dash to take cover beneath the wide metal staircase. I have no idea what direction the Luparii are coming from. Hot, searing pain shoots clean through the flesh of my left arm as a bullet tears through. One word flashes through my mind as I dive for cover: sniper. They meant to lure me out here. Amara tears the fabric on the right side of her skirt, exposing her thigh and the sheath buckled to it. She slashes the tent’s canvas and we slip behind the flap below one of the bleachers. My left arms starts to throb as blood soaks through my jacket. I slip out of it so I can inspect the severity of the wound. It doesn’t look great but I’ll survive. A strange hush settles on the crowd. Amara goes still and I follow her gaze to mid-field. Walking out into the arena is a slow-moving four-legged robot. It’s the size and shape of a very large dog. The entire crowd is mesmerized, starting in wonderment at the ridiculous sight. As it draws closer to center field, the wolves crouch down low, snarling and prepared for whatever may come. The top of the machine slides open to reveal a slot from which a gun turret rises. The wolves slowly approach, not knowing what they’re walking into. Amara attempts to hold me back as I scramble out from hiding and into the arena. War is unfair, but I’m not about to pretend there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Get back!” I shout as loudly as I can.

As I close in on the distance, a mechanical whir fills the silence and the turret begins to spin like a helicopter blade. There’s no time. I shift as I leap on top of the wolf closest to me. The robot opens fire in a shower of something. I’ve never been on the receiving end of a machine gun, but I don’t think they’re bullets. The screams and shouts of the spectators now drown out any other sound. I’m hit with something that’s similar to the sting of a bee in my ribs. I glance around at the crowd flooding out of the tent. My head begins to feel heavy. The wolf I had knocked down stirs. It’s Ben and he’s unhurt. He leaps out into the fray and I watch in a sedated wonder as he shifts mid-run into his other form to avoid a projectile then, just as easily, transforms back to push another wolf out of harm’s way. The weapon stops firing long before the arena is cleared, the turret coming to a silent stop just as quickly as it had started. At the same time, Amara appears at my side. She drags me back behind the bleachers. It’s impossible to know if she’s speaking through the noise of the crowd and the fog that’s setting in my mind. She lays me down and the vertical slats of the seating further obstruct my view, as though I’m looking past Venetian blinds. Feet scramble by as the crowd forces a path to the exit. Some fall in front of me, others have already fallen as the effect of the darts begins to take hold. A handful of wolves attempt to rip apart the machine, now a lifeless hunk of metal that served its function. I roll onto my side in the damp grass and look at where I was hit. A blue-finned dart sticks out of me. I shift back to my human form to pull it out shakily, holding it up for Amara to see.

“Wolf’s Bane,” I murmur as everything goes dark.