13. DEMONS

 

We bury the fallen Wilds in a hinterland graveyard. Cairns mark the dozens of burial sites among a stand of evergreens, small mounds of heaped rocks without any markings. I wouldn’t have known the names even if there had been headstones. The whelp’s family is nowhere to be seen — either dead themselves or ‘cured.’ His is the tiniest plot. Life shouldn’t be this short or nearly as cruel. Would this have happened if I hadn’t come here? Did I lead the Luparii to the Wilds, or were the wheels already in motion? A lump of guilt rises up in my throat. Amara stands next to me, gaze fixed intently on the dirt plot. I can’t even begin to understand what she’s feeling right now. All the hope that I carried with me overseas has evaporated. The truth of the matter is, I did bring this here. I’m responsible for the carnage that was unleashed in the arena. My long shadow casts itself across his grave, a terrible reminder of the beast that always lurks within me. I want to bury it with the rest of them. My freak DNA is the only reason Wolf’s Bane exists. I’ve let down everyone I care about, and many more that I don’t even know.

Nearby footsteps crunch along dead foliage until Ben emerges to stand across from us. His arms are filled with stacked stones, which he drops unceremoniously onto the tiny plot, doubling its size. He’s just buried a number of his pack mates, the mental and physical exhaustion clear on his face. How many of the plots around us belong to friends of his? Living free means living hard. He hunkers down to pile the stones properly, the only marker of the whelp’s final resting place. I lean down to give Ben a hand but he gestures at me to stop.

“I got it.”

For a long while there’s just a silent rest filled in with the staccato of stones being stacked. I don’t say a word. Eventually he stops to study the small cairn, resting his elbows on his thighs before fixing his unreadable expression on me.

“You oughta be a wolf.” He repeats his earlier observation. “Why aren’t you?”

“I’m ... a hybrid,” I start, searching my brain for a way to explain DNA and genetic recombination without getting too complex.

He nods. “Human and werewolf mix. Truth be told, I didn’t reckon you were like the rest of the old ’uns.”

He doesn’t know the half of it.

“Did Habbakuk ever tell stories about the old enemies?”

“Not much. Why do old ’uns always gotta look back?” He hurls a stone across the graveyard. “We left all that foolishness behind.”

I wish it were that simple. The Wilds have no clue about the outside world. They live in the equivalent of a gated community sheltered from the truth. Everything they need to survive is contained within the wildlife preserve, and the Founders see to their every need.

“You may have forgotten your old enemies,” I start, “but they haven’t forgotten you.”

He just stares at me.

“What happened here today ... it was just a warning shot. They’re coming for all of us.”

Although Ben’s mouth opens, his eyes dart away for a moment and the words change course. “Did you lead them here?” he asks without malice, but the question still stings.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “They were coming either way. I may have sped things up. I’m sorry.”

Before he died, Roul talked about living in an economy of power — one in which we often have to barter in blood. These Wilds have never seen a war before, but I imagine they’ll be the first on the line when the Luparii mount their second attack. Ben rises, nodding at someone behind us.

“Like I said afore, whatever may come, I owe you.”

I turn to see Marrock approaching with four NYPD officers in tow, part of our police escort here. “What’s going on?”

“We found a ransom note from the sniper.”

“Who’s the hostage?” I press, sensing Esrin would be a prime target.

He and the officers stop several feet from me. “When the Luparii’s involved, all of us are. Until we find the son of a bitch who did this, we’re in lockdown.”

Marrock reveals a band of fabric in his fist and tosses it to Ben, who catches it in one hand. I catch a familiar scent as the scarf arches by me in the air. I can’t quite place the smell but it makes the wolf in me bristle. Ben closes his eyes as he holds the cloth up to his nose and inhales deeply.

“Bring him back alive,” the captain instructs.

With a nod Ben skulks away. Marrock leads us in the opposite direction to the cabin. Everything is unnaturally quiet. There’s a forest full of creatures holding their breath in the presence of so many wolves. Inside, Amara follows me into my room. I yank my tie off and drop it on the floor before she even has time to close the door behind us. Then I pull the fabric of my shirt apart, popping the buttons off in the process, and leave the shirt where it falls. Amara examines my wound, barefoot in her pretty party dress, as I sit on the edge of the bed. The flow of blood from the bullet hole has stopped and it looks as though the bullet tore clean through. It’s a mess but it will heal. I still have movement in my arm so I take that to mean it didn’t tear through a tendon or anything important. Her fingertips pull away covered in blood. The airy purple fabric below her waist is slightly torn. Her hair, pulled back at the top with a silvery clip, has come loose around her face. Still, in every way, she’s as mesmerizing to me as the first day I saw her. I toss my phone on the bed and lie back, staring up at the oak ceiling and turning around the events of the past few hours. I should have pressed Marrock for more information, but I’m too exhausted to handle anything more right now. I just need to think.

After a long silence Amara says, “It is no longer safe for you to remain here.”

I sit up on my elbows. “I can’t just leave them like this.”

“You must.”

I don’t have the energy to fight so I respond with silence.

She presses on. “The Luparii presence here means that they are spreading their forces too thin in the midst of mounting a war. They would only do so if they could afford to. You know what that means.”

It means they’re confident of winning the battle in Europe. It means they’ve culled our numbers enough without resistance to make bold moves. It also means she’s right. My time here is over. We need to go back regardless of whether or not I’ll be able to unite the packs. Ultimately, our pack is the one I need to protect.

“Consider this situation free of your emotions,” she continues, taking my silence for continued protest. “Roul did not lay down his life for nothing. What you have in you is likely the key to our salvation.”

I bob my head up and down once and she accepts this as enough. My brain switches to Plan B but I’m interrupted. Marrock doesn’t knock but just enters the room and stands at the open door. Outside are posted two uniformed officers.

“I need to speak to your boss,” he says to Amara. “In private.”

She looks to me for approval and I nod. Marrock closes the door behind her then leans back into the frame.

“How’d you know what was about to happen at the Coinneachadh?”

“What makes you think that?” I call his bluff.

“You were warned.” His eyes search mine. “By who? Now’s the time for a little give and take.”

I hold up my phone. “Text. I don’t know from who or why.”

Marrock takes my phone and crosses the room to sit by the window in a chair that appears to have been made from tree roots. Sitting upright on the bed, my eyes fall to the quilted duvet, where my index finger subconsciously drew a picture by my side in bloody ink: a child’s image of a house. He tosses the phone back to me, satisfied.

“The way I see it, you don’t got a lot of options left here,” he says. “And right now? You need me more than I need you. The Luparii have made you out to be a hot commodity.”

I think back to the ransom note, and it dawns on me that I don’t need to ask what they want. Suddenly the lockdown makes much more sense. “You’re turning me in to them.”

“Don’t take this personal, but I got a job to do.”

My mouth twists into an ugly grimace. “We’re talking about my life here. What’s more personal than that?”

“I’m weighing it against hundreds of others,” he says, gazing out at the forested landscape.

I laugh sourly. “You’re still not getting the extermination part of this equation. They won’t stop at me.” In the long pause that hangs between us I gaze back to where Amara stood just moments ago. “Can you at least leave her out of this?”

He looks me up and down. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

“Roul had more honor than all of you put together,” I growl. “Lives are completely expendable to you Founders — just another commodity to exchange for your own gain. Selling your entire species out for a fast buck? You’re no better than the ones you ran from.”

“I am not a Founder,” he barks angrily.

My mind spins around this. “So when Esrin says ‘we’—”

“She uses the royal ‘we.’” He smirks.

The revelation actually shouldn’t surprise me. Esrin has molded herself in the likeness of the old kings and queens of human society. She treats everything with the short spectrum that lies between disinterest and disdain. Marrock, on the other hand, acts with a vested interest in every aspect of what goes down. It’s clear he’s not cut from the same cloth.

“What does that make you then?”

“I’m the general.”

For a long while he just stares out the window, his short, ruddy hair slightly disheveled and a five o’clock shadow on his face. He’s taken off the dress shirt and tie and wears only a simple cotton undershirt beneath his shoulder holster. Marrock leans back into the twisted arms of the chair and his voice takes on a sweet timbre when he speaks again.

“They make the money; they call the shots. I enforce the rules; I get paid,” he says. “Simple as that.”

With the pageantry stripped away, I recognize him for what he is. The broad build and military stance suggested it from the beginning. A mercenary. A soldier for hire. This is a dictatorship backed by an army. One side is unable to exist without the other. His NYPD officers are his elite forces but his army is seven companies strong.

“I want to hire you,” I offer without hesitation.

“You may not have to.”

There’s a crash from below as someone barges into the foyer below us. Raised voices suddenly grow louder, overlapping in argument, as footsteps approach on the other side of the door. We both rise to our feet just as Ben storms into the room, disheveled and blood-smeared. He tosses the scarf across the room and pushes a handcuffed prisoner roughly to the floor. The owner of the scarf, the sniper, looks at us, eyes filled with hatred, and I recognize him instantly.

He spits out a single word when our gazes lock. “Perro.”