12. THE PHOENIX

 

I wake up to an awful silence, like the aftermath in a disaster movie when the survivors are too stunned or too tired from screaming and running to say or do anything except take in the devastation. As my vision clears, I sense a presence. I’m surprised to see Ben sitting by my side, keeping watch over me. My attempt at sitting up to assess the situation isn’t much of a success. All I know for sure is that Amara isn’t in my range of vision. Ben’s stormy eyes measure me. My tongue is a leaden weight as I try to form words.

“What was that thing?” he asks.

“A...” I start, pulling myself up on my elbows, “something like the Mars Rover.”

“Come again?”

This may be difficult to explain. I think long and hard to pull a synonym from my cloudy head. “A machine built by the Luparii to attack packs with this.” My fingers play at the blue-feathered casing in my hand. “The ones who were hit, they’re ... cured. Human and wolf separated. They won’t be able to shift back to their other form again.”

He sucks in a breath of disbelief. “If that’s true, you oughta be a wolf.”

I shakily rise to my feet, getting steadier by the minute as the effects of the tranquilizer fade. I stumble past him and peer beyond the seats toward the field. The dart slips from my fingers and plants itself into the grass like a deadly flower. Boguet’s plan had been to eliminate the animal within us — make us human, like what happened to Arden. But that trial run never took Arden’s half-human blood into account, muddying the results of Wolf’s Bane. Every Wild who was hit with a dart lies unconscious around the arena — as a wolf, not a human. Except for me. Before we left for America Arden reported back about the Luparii curing the lone wolves, but he withheld this information from me. My heart lurches in my chest.

“Where’s Amara?”

The mind can go to scary places in just a fragment of a second. He nods toward the bleachers to our left but otherwise doesn’t move. Some of the wolves are beginning to stir, both in the arena and where they fell in the stands. I step carefully around them to avoid drawing their attention. Their new lives begin now. Unexpected, unwelcome and born of injustice. They’ve been robbed of whatever choice, whatever control, they had. What harm were they doing anyone out here in the middle of nowhere? Ben has followed me into the open, leaning against a metal post.

“I owe you,” he whispers.

I shake my head, and Roul’s words slip past my lips without thinking. “No man’s life should be a debt to another.”

With careful movements I make my way through the maze of doped-up wolves. More and more wolves stir and a pang of worry hits me, concern about their possible reaction to their new state. But my focus is on Amara. I find her sitting on the bleachers about six rows up, her head hanging forward so her black hair falls around her face like a curtain. Her forearms are perched on her thighs, and cradled in her hands is the young whelp, unconscious with a blue-feathered dart protruding from the fur on his belly. A greater realization dawns on me. Before now, the best-case scenario was that Arden and Amara would continue living their lives until he would one day die prematurely, after living out his human years with her. Now, if Amara is hit by Wolf’s Bane, instead of living together as husband and wife with a limited lifespan to spend together, the stakes are infinitely more unforgiving. Husband and wolf. I take a seat below her, catching a rare glimpse of emotion on what I can see of her face. Her lips are pressed into a taut line, her black eyes moist, her pale brow furrowed. I don’t know yet if she’s made the same connections as me, and I worry selfishly about how she might react. I don’t think I can do this alone.

“Like Esrin said, the pup is young. At least—”

She grimaces, and when she speaks I hear wet emotion coursing through her. “He is dead.”

The words are a punch in the throat. I turn my head away as my brain tries to process this cruelty, fighting back the tears. I wish I hadn’t been right the other night about the risks of overdosing someone on tranquilizers. A wolf that I hadn’t noticed stirs a few feet from me, almost close enough to touch. There was a time not long ago when I would have been highly alarmed by this sort of thing. It crosses my mind that I should be now, but it’s sort of a foolish sight, a wolf still dressed in a dark navy jumpsuit. I can’t let it leave like this. The wolf snarls, groggy and confused, then scampers down to the arena and the others. It’s impossible to tell how their brains have been affected, if there’s anything but animal left in them. In a way it would be a mercy — not to have the sentience of self-awareness, not to know that they’re trapped within this form.

“We should leave,” I say to Amara.

Marrock storms into the tent. His eyes scan around until they lock on to me. I stand to face him as he approaches.

“This wasn’t me,” I assure him ahead of the accusation.

“I know,” he says.

For the Luparii to show up on their doorstep and in such a dramatic way could have been considered too convenient. They’ve illustrated the real threat we’re facing overseas in this bold action, better than I could have with words. His lack of suspicion is a relief. I step down from the stands to meet him. He has discarded his suit jacket and his dress shirt is half open, revealing a Kevlar vest. Bullets — actual bullets — are lodged across the thick fabric, though he looks otherwise unscathed. It brings to mind my gunshot wound, but either through the drugs or my werewolf physiology, there’s no pain when I touch it.

“What happened?” I ask as he inspects the bullet wound on my arm, assessing the damage. “I was knocked out by one of the tranq darts.”

“This was more than just a tranq,” he says, tearing his sleeve off and turning it into a makeshift bandage. “The younger Wilds flooded outside during the attack. There was a sniper waiting.”

“This whole thing was a trap,” I say.

“You think?”

I glance into his eyes as he finishes tying off the wound on my arm. Sarcasm isn’t exactly a common trait among werewolves. There’s a pause between us before he flashes a sly smile and pats me on the wound he just wrapped. I grimace but the pain is minute.

“The Luparii must have been planning this for months,” he agrees. “Probably killed the chieftain, Habbakuk, just to set the Coinneachadh in motion.”

He eyes the machine in the middle of the arena. On the black metal surface is also a bizarre coat of arms: a crest flanked by faces that are supposed to be lupine but look suspiciously human. Having seen the crest of the Hounds before, I surmise this one must belong to the Luparii. How else would Marrock have known it was them?

“We’re combing through the forest for the son of a bitch now.”

“And you know this wasn’t me.”

“Yeah,” he repeats firmly.

Some of the Wilds — the ones that weren’t hit — begin to gather around us, keenly focusing on our conversation. Ben moves from where he was standing by the bleachers to join their ranks.

“This isn’t the place for this conversation,” Marrock says.

One of the Wilds steps forward from the crowd. She’s livid, but at least it’s not directed at me. “The Founders are bound to protect us,” she reminds the captain. “How’d this happen?”

“There’s no need to raise the alarm,” Marrock continues in an even tone.

The packs begin to converge on us in their jumpsuits, locking us into a circle. Ben stands on the outskirts, not moving. Emotionless, Marrock looks around at the Wilds.

“I call for a parley,” he proclaims.

This elicits a grumble, but the crowd complies. Without another word, all but a few of the Wilds disperse outside the tent. Those who remain appear to be pack leaders in their different colored jumpsuits, except for several of Ben’s pack.

Ben pushes into the circle. “Who’s the voice of the Appalachians at the parley?”

His question causes a bit of a disagreement among the chieftains.

“We don’t have time to bicker about it,” Marrock tells them. “The last thing we need is widespread panic among the packs. Stay if you want. We’ll figure it out later.”

One of the chieftains gestures at me and Amara. “What about these old ones here?”

“I can vouch for them,” Marrock answers.

“Likewise.” Ben backs us, to my surprise. It’s enough to satisfy the concern.

When Marrock speaks, he addresses me and it soon becomes clear why. “A few months back Phenix Industries bid on a defense contract for a machine called BadWolf. It was developed and built as a robotic pack mule, nothing more. An all-purpose delivery tool to transport goods across unfriendly terrain. They shipped dozens of them overseas to Europe. Obviously the client wasn’t vetted properly.”

The Wilds look confused.

“You just armed our enemies?”

His lips twitch as he gestures at the lifeless robot. “That there is a modified version of what Phenix built.”

As the chieftains talk amongst each other I hazard a glance over at Amara, who watches with detached interest; the new revelation about Wolf’s Bane may yet prove to be her tipping point.

“It was a mistake.” Marrock’s smart enough to not escalate tensions further by saying more. Even if the manhunt for the sniper ends in capture, the events of the morning have rightfully put the Wilds on edge. The answers they’ll find will be a shock. The Wilds — the ones who are living — have never seen the old enemies. The Luparii and the Hounds of God are just old stories to them.

“This is more than a mistake,” Ben says, holding up the blue-finned dart. “You can’t undo this, can you?”

My eyes fall away from him and I shake my head. There’s a renewed clamor among the chieftains.

“The old enemies should bleed for what they’ve done here,” someone else says.

“We’ve never seen the likes of that machine,” another leader responds. “We’re not prepared for modern combat.”

The truth unsettles the chieftains.

“We’re not the ones who messed up.”

We follow an accusing gaze up to the luxury box, where Esrin and her bodyguards are still standing. I had forgotten all about them. They watch the events unfold down here like we’re just contestants on a reality TV show. Was she the one who made the colossal mistake? Marrock snarls out of unadulterated frustration, and the wolves around us respond in kind.

Ben steps forward and holds up a hand. After a somber pause, he says, “We oughta bury the dead now.”

The chieftains nod and reluctantly walk away, a united front under the common enemy of their grief. These Wilds have a history together despite their differences. It’s clear that what the Founders have established isn’t the solution I’m looking for. Power through absolute control. The Wilds aren’t interested in money or government. Amara rises from the bleachers and comes down to meet me on the arena floor with the whelp cradled in one arm. She doesn’t say a word. I have a sense that what we bury here today is any hope of understanding of how to make things right overseas. I pull my phone from my pants pocket and respond to the unknown text messenger, asking the question that’s been on my mind since this whole situation blew up in our face: Who R U?