2. I CAN’T HEAR YOU

 

I stand and peer down toward the tarmac, where an officer looks up at me expectantly. The man appears to be in his late thirties, with light ruddy brown hair and a heavily lined face. Judging by his white dress shirt with gold bars on the shoulders, I place him as an NYPD captain. Something about his warrior’s physique tells me he’s one of us. My instinct is to run — to get the hell away from here and put as much distance between them and us as possible. But this is what I came here for. Well, not exactly this, but to find them. They just made it easy. Maybe that’s what makes this entire situation so disconcerting. Now that the engines have shut down, the pilot emerges from the cockpit. I think it’s to release the exit hatch, but instead he pauses to open a panel, behind which is a metal locker. As he pulls a key from his pocket and retrieves what he was searching for, I do a double-take at the FAMAS assault rifle in his hands that I recognize only from playing Call of Duty.

“No,” I say, trying my level best not to sound alarmed at the sight of what I assume is a loaded weapon. “We didn’t come here to start another war.”

He casts an unsure look toward Amara, so I stride down the aisle to show exactly who’s in charge. I learned a lot about body language since taking leadership of a wolf pack. It’s half the battle when gaining control of a situation — not just a means of communication, but a way of conveying confidence. Only when that fails and there’s no getting around it do I have to assert myself either verbally or, if it comes down to it, physically. At those times I have to channel the wolf in me without unleashing it completely. Sometimes that’s not an easy task.

“Do we have a problem?” I ask, leaning into a dominant stance.

The pilot swallows down the insubordination that was bubbling to the surface as he stashes the weapon. Quietly, he says, “At least take this.”

He reaches into the gun locker again and hands me a pistol, which I hesitate to take.

“It belonged to ... your predecessor,” he insists.

I thrust my hands into my pants pockets, deciding against it. “Put it away and let them board.”

“He—”

“I’m not him, am I.” My words come out more of a statement than a question.

“No, sir.”

He stows the gun, locks up the metal case, then replaces the panel before opening the door and lowering the steps onto the tarmac. A cold gust rushes in, filled with the wet and earthy scent of spring. Not sure what to expect, I stand back in anticipation of the police storming in. Instead, the dull clank of a pair of boots on metal steps precedes the police captain’s appearance in the rectangular exit. His broad form fills the doorway, eyes scanning the plane quickly with his hands on his belt, no doubt ready to draw his weapon if needed.

“You’ve been cleared through customs and your motorcade’s here, courtesy of the Founders.” His accent places him from Brooklyn, but Brooklyn in the way that Bill “the Butcher” Cutting was portrayed in Gangs of New York. After a pause his eyes travel to the leather chairs. “Whenever your boss is ready, that is.”

Amara, who’s still seated, now flips through my tablet without so much as an acknowledgement of the captain’s presence. Naturally, everyone would assume that between us she’s the one calling the shots. I’m not yet eighteen, and even though I’ve grown into my own skin these past few months, I don’t have the maturity that hundreds of years affords. I let it slide, but it’s a dangerous game Amara is playing, pretending to be the one filling Roul’s shoes. I can’t deny that she’s better at faking it than me. At least it’ll buy us time as we suss out what these American werewolves are after. I should have anticipated their immediate interest, but I figured I’d be the one to flush them out of hiding rather than vice versa. The cop watches as we collect our bags then leads us to the waiting motorcade: a black limo with two squad cars and an unmarked black Ford Interceptor. I have no idea where we’re being taken or who we’re even meeting. For that matter, I don’t even know how they figured out we were coming. Their system of governance is a complete mystery, one that I hope to gain some insight into before we leave — or are asked to leave — their territory. The doors lock as we settle in to the limo — a distinctly ominous sound of entrapment — and the driver speeds off with the captain ahead in his unmarked vehicle, our vehicles bookended by the squad cars, lights flashing as we all fly through the mid-morning traffic on the I-95 South into Manhattan.

Amara and I sit in silence for the entirety of the drive, not wanting to give away anything in case we’re being watched. Paranoia has become an unwanted side effect of being on so many most-wanted lists. We pass the New Jersey Meadowlands, thousands of acres of wetlands that I never paid much notice to when I was living in the city. Now I run through a list of green spaces in my mind, just in case we need to make a run for it. A flock of small birds take off from the marsh, flying with precise and coordinated movements like aerobatic planes in formation swerving in time with each other. I need to bring together the packs in this way. The birds make it look so easy. They don’t have politics to concern themselves with. Beyond that the Manhattan skyline stretches out before us, all glass and concrete, before we head into the depths of the Holland Tunnel, where bright white lights shimmer against the long, tiled walls. It’s a route I’ve taken probably a hundred times but home has really never felt so foreign to me.

When we passed through airport security in Paris, this American pack — the Founders, apparently — must have picked up our flight plan from the system and followed our every move. They could safely assume we’d be unarmed. It’s still too early to tell if it was a mistake not to take the pistol. I can’t say for sure how long they’ve been watching or if I was on their radar the whole time I was overseas. Roul wasn’t exactly low-profile as CEO of Fenrir Pharmaceuticals. I didn’t imagine they were this organized. The police escort is a nice touch and sends a pretty clear message about their level of power. Packs usually operate in smaller numbers. Infiltrating the NYPD would take some doing. For one of us to rise up to the rank of captain is impressive, to say the least. From what I’ve been told, Roul’s ambitions to exist and thrive among humans were pretty unique in Europe. The others mostly led their lives in the margins between worlds, unable to fully integrate yet equally incapable of escaping human interference. What we have here is a whole new ballgame.

The limo turns left off Canal and comes to a stop, the chauffeur letting us out at 240 Centre Street in NoLIta. It’s a majestic building: wide stones with columns and a pediment over the entrance, and a green copper dome crowning the centerpiece like a European palace. A wide set of steps leads up to three ornate metal doors that are framed within the stone arches of the entry and guarded by a stone lion on each side. It makes me nostalgic for Paris. It’s probably strange to feel so strongly about a place I’ve only lived in for less than a year — much of it either under quarantine or in hiding. In a way, though, I was born there.

A doorman lets us in and the historic charm carries through the interior as we enter an equally extravagant marble foyer. Glass chandeliers hang from inlaid ceiling squares carved in a floral pattern. Our footsteps echo as the captain leads us past the concierge and into the elevator. We’re going to the penthouse. He leaves two officers posted outside the main door, no surprise, before pressing a code into the keypad lock and entering ahead of us. In stark contrast to what I’ve seen of the rest of the building, the penthouse apartment is like something out of a science fiction novel. Curved metal support beams almost twenty feet above are painted pure white, as are the walls and ceiling. The furnishings are all glass, chrome or icy blue leather. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the sheer luminosity of the room.

I set my bag down with a weary sigh, just as I catch the slightest movement ahead of us. A bored girl who looks just slightly older than me sits flipping through a magazine. Two brown wolves lounge lazily on their own sofas. They don’t so much as make eye contract as I stare across at them. Both wolves wear the equivalent of doggy couture collars, thick bands of leather inlaid with gemstones. With her long brown hair pulled back, I catch a glimmer off the girl’s earrings. As she turns a page, her perfectly manicured nails shimmer as well, also bejeweled. The captain clears his throat to force her attention, and even then there’s a pause as she finishes perusing the page before she looks up. Her light brown eyes are lined in black, giving her something of a catlike appearance. Those eyes flick between us before deciding to rest on Amara and stare her down. One of the wolves snores sonorously. I attempt to step forward in order to make introductions but the captain presses his hand against my chest and forces me to stop a few feet short of her.

“That’s far enough,” he says, moving back a pace.

“We are here to see the Founders,” Amara says flatly. “Would that be you?”

The girl remains silent but her eyes slide over to her uniformed counterpart.

“And who exactly in the hell are you?” the cop asks. “I was expecting Rodolfus de Aquila on that plane.”

“Unfortunately, he is dead,” Amara tells him without a hint of emotion.

“Yeah, I gathered as much,” he replies dismissively. If he knew Roul, he doesn’t show it. Then again, the werewolf isn’t exactly a species that wears its heart on its sleeve.

He looks between us until his eyes fall to my neckline. He tenses suddenly and circles around me, blocking my path to the girl again. Absently, my right hand follows the trajectory of his gaze. I neglected to button up my collar and left the tattoo on my neck exposed. Every bit of ink has a story behind it, and whatever speculation he has about mine, it isn’t good. In the next instant he’s pulled off his shirt and tosses it into a heap by his feet. As I step back, my hand runs across the close-cut hair at the back of my head as I watch him unbuckle his belt, knowing without a shred of doubt what happens next.

“Para bellum,” he says.

Prepare for war.

He means to fight me. The werewolf version of Fight Club, something I still have trouble wrapping my head around, is apparently a custom that spans the globe. These fights are brought on suddenly and without much warning. More than just a display of physical prowess, it’s a way of unleashing the pent-up animal within. It’s also a rite that I can’t deny. I have no idea what the police captain’s role is among his pack, but as he pulls his white undershirt over his head I see more clearly a warrior’s build, even if his age is beginning to show in the way the skin hangs on his muscular frame. Over his heart is a tattoo — a yellow shield with a blue crouching lion like on a coat of arms. A story for every bit of ink.

“Est modus in rebus.” I draw from one of Roul’s Latin phrases, trying to reason with him when it’s clear we’re escalating to a physical showdown. “Is this really necessary?”

“There’s no middle ground here,” he says, unfazed. “Not on my turf.”

“Enough,” Amara says, placing a calming hand on my forearm.

“You should know that’s not how this works,” he persists.

“Call off your hound or I will,” Amara barks at the girl, who watches with detached amusement.

The captain grins. “Get on line. There’s plenty of fight in me to go around, but you’ll have to wait until I’m done with the kid.”

Seeing that there’s no other way, I begin to strip out of my suit. “I’ve got this.”

He may have me beat in size but I’ve been getting a lot of fight practice lately and I make up for it in agility.

“No.”

“Step off,” I tell Amara, adrenalin ramping up ahead of the fight. “Now.”

Although she narrows her eyes, she backs down respectfully.

“You Old Worlders aren’t as respectful of your alphas as I remember,” the captain says before he lets out a ferocious snarl and shifts.

I do the same, and just in time. He charges toward me with his head down, ears back and teeth bared. All I have time to do is mimic his stance while the hairs bristle on my withers. His paw swipes across my muzzle and I feel the sting of his claws. I retaliate. We rise to our hind legs, wrestling and fangs flashing. He’s forced me into a stance that makes my speed useless. We each try to grab a bite of the other without success until finally his teeth nip into the tender flesh of my right ear. I let out an involuntary yelp as he rolls me onto my back against the pale hardwood floor and gains the upper hand. His weight crushes down on me, solid muscle. With all four paws I push against his heft, trying to free myself, but it’s no use. Seeing an opportunity, Amara gives us a wide berth and moves toward the girl. The captain assesses the bigger threat and scrambles off me in an attempt to cut Amara off. I spin around back on all fours and bolt toward him. Leaping into the air, I wrap my claws around his thick neck to grapple with him again. He barks in surprise as his head spins toward me, but not before I manage to clamp down on his withers. He doesn’t stop, despite my firm grip, and tries to buck me off like a bull instead. It causes me to draw blood and he growls as I do, creating a humming sensation that thrums through my jawline.

The girl stands then, in slow applause, clearly indicating that the fight is over. It disturbs the wolves but not enough for them to rise out of their repose. Amara halts her own approach, wary of the sudden call to end the brawl. The girl has a waifish figure that some girls seem to inexplicably strive for, barely a film of body fat over her skeletal frame highlighted in her lacy, form-fitting gray dress. She stands tall on strappy stilettos like a high fashion Bratz doll come to life. Her wide-set brown eyes slowly scan the room as Amara lets out a low growl. My opponent and I were motionless, but now a distressed howl comes from him as he tries to pull away. I hold him in place with my teeth. The girl remains completely unfazed, and her lack of reaction is both unsettling yet strangely reassuring at the same time. The last thing I need right now is for things to escalate even further.

“Please, this is such a bore,” she says in an accent that gives her an air of a young Arianna Huffington of werewolves. “What on Earth even caused all of this drama?”

I have to leave the answer to Amara since doing so myself would mean shifting to my more vulnerable form, and my attacker is still struggling in my jaws without showing any signs of letting up.

“Call him off, Esrin,” Amara says again calmly. “We are not here to fight.”

“Really, Amara, there’s no need for such theatrics.”

My concentration is one hundred per cent on the conversation instead of my captive, who could easily break free at this moment. My head spins as I try to keep up. They know each other? The girl looks over at me — at us — and I feel the captain calm as he returns to the form of a man. I release him, pull away quickly and place as much distance between us as possible so I can do the same. I wipe the dribble of blood from my mouth. The wound on his neck is superficial. I didn’t escape unscathed. My own body aches. My left cheek is swelling and there’s a damp sting on my earlobe where he bit me. All in all, we were fairly evenly matched. The girl shows no shame in sizing me up as I stand naked, post-shift. I quickly pull on my trousers and slip back into my dress shirt. Remembering the handkerchief in my jacket, I take it from the breast pocket and hold the fabric against my ear to stanch the bleeding. Now that the atmosphere has cooled, Amara has the decency to toss the captain’s pants over to him.

“Will one of you please explain ... these antics?” the girl asks no one in particular.

“An ordinary fight,” Amara responds. “One that your hound instigated.”

“You think?” the man asks gruffly as he zips up his trousers. “What are you doing here then?”

“Hold up,” I interject, clearly the only one out of the loop. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Lyall Marrock,” the captain says. “And this is Esrin Beyazkurt.”

The girl adds in an even tone, “You were searching for the Founders. We are the Founders.”

“Besides your name, we know nothing about the Founders,” I tell them. “But I’m going to be honest here. I was expecting more than this. Are we wasting our time here? ’Cause this seems like amateur hour.”

With a beguiling smile, Esrin casually walks toward Amara. They stare each other down, neither backing off nor flinching. “Explain to our guests, will you, Captain?”

As he leans down to pick up the rest of his clothes, Marrock fills in the gaps. “I got four snipers positioned across the street. Two on the roof, two down at that window over there and a dozen more officers in the lobby. There was never any danger here, not for us. That still sound like amateur hour?”

My confidence wavers, my last memory of a sniper still fresh. With a single gesture he calls forth two red lasers that dot Amara’s body at the head and heart. I don’t have to look down to know she sees the same on me. Okay. I smile inwardly. So not amateur hour.