3. FIRE FIRE

 

“How about you back away slowly from my piece now?” Captain Marrock asks glibly.

Amara’s eyes flicker to the pistol at her feet. There aren’t really many options considering the tiny red lasers dotting her head and torso so she complies with the request, allowing Marrock to reclaim the weapon in its holster. He slips his arms through the straps of the holster before buttoning his dress shirt. One command from him would put an end to us. I scan the room for potential blind spots that we could make use of but find none.

“You must excuse the precautions we felt were necessary,” Esrin says, examining her nails as though our skirmish may have somehow chipped them. “Many others have come here before you with less than honorable intentions. Given our history...”

She leaves the sentence to hang while looking directly Amara, who has barely moved a muscle since discovering the sights of two marksmen were on her. From what I’ve been able to piece together, Amara probably understands the gravity of the situation a lot better than I do. I don’t know why she kept her past with the Founders a secret, but I figure it’s in my best interests to follow her lead.

“We’re not here to cause any trouble,” I assure them, slowly folding my bloodied handkerchief. “But we were looking for you.”

“Of course,” Esrin agrees, glancing back to her counterpart. “Those who ask for trouble play a game fit only for fools and martyrs. We don’t take you for either.”

“Hold on now,” Marrock starts in a low voice, “something still doesn’t add up here, and we don’t move on until it does.” He half-circles me, careful not to block the line of sight for his snipers. “You’re marked with the eagle. That can mean only one of two things. So, let’s get the first thing out of the way. Did you kill him?”

I shake my head, appalled at the very thought. Roul laid down his life for me on the off chance that somehow I could save his pack. I’m marked now with his sacrifice for the rest of my life, which could be longer than I ever imagined, or end abruptly with this conversation, depending on my answer.

“I didn’t kill him,” I say evenly, regaining my composure.

Esrin lounges back on her elbows, relaxing even further. The wide leather sofa is dyed an unnatural pale blue. I can almost picture her in a different time, being fanned and fed grapes maybe somewhere along the Nile. Every bit of her is imbued with a kind of privilege that gets passed down through generations.

“Alright, I buy that,” Marrock says. “Now you’ve got about sixty seconds to explain who you are.”

I stammer over a way to get off the defensive while counting down the seconds I’ve got left.

“I was born here, on the Upper West Side,” I attempt, hoping for some hometown camaraderie.

“Welcome home,” he says and his sardonic tone surprises me. “Now tell me something that matters.”

The sigh that escapes my lips comes unbidden. “Roul — Rodolfus — was assassinated four months ago by the Luparii. They were aiming for me.”

That grabs his attention. He tries not to let on, but I catch a spark of interest. I’ve been working on the basis that these American werewolves fled Europe to escape persecution from the Luparii or the Hounds of God or both. If I’m right, this information should bait a more basic factor in survival instinct: self-preservation.

“The Luparii,” he repeats. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time, and I’m sorry to hear it again.” After a pause he adds, “Still doesn’t explain your ink. That’s the sign of Aquila. If you didn’t kill him then—”

“I gave him that mark,” Amara interrupts.

“You know the rules?” Marrock asks her.

She looks at me but says nothing more.

Eyes still trained on me, Marrock nods back toward Amara. “Your boss here’s gone awful quiet.”

I’ve held my cards close to my chest up until now. Time to show some them. Staring the man down evenly, I tell him, “I’m the boss.”

His eyes widen slightly as he gives me the once-over. “You messing with me now? Have you even cut your teeth yet, kid?”

Amara lets out a low growl.

“No disrespect,” he adds with a smirk.

“I think I proved my worth as a leader in my ability to stand up against you.”

His expression falters. “What do we say, there’s no harm, no foul?”

Stepping forward he reaches out, and I stare at his outstretched hand, dumbfounded. Whether it’s the jet lag or the dizzying turn of events, I’m not sure, but to say I’m overwhelmed would be an oversimplification.

“Look, kid, you keep this up and I’ll start taking it personally.”

“Keep calling me kid and I will too,” I throw back.

I reach out, but instead of taking my hand, he grabs my forearm, just below the elbow, and I mimic the gesture as we shake in a strange greeting. Up close, his age shows on his grizzled and lined face, and his reddish brown hair is going white. Werewolves aren’t immortal, but we age like canines, accelerated at a human rate until adolescence when the process slows down significantly. All the same, I have no idea how old he really is. In a way, he’s everything that isn’t the Parisian pack — laissez-faire and rough around the edges. But he’s also unassuming and plainspoken, traits that make me feel somewhat more at ease. He signals again to the window, and moments later — one by one by one — the little red laser dots disappear. I don’t doubt we’re still in their sights and that the gesture is more a show of scaling down the threat level. He scouts the room for a place to sit then settles back in an uncomfortable-looking leather chair, elbows propped against the armrests. Amara prowls around, eyes never leaving Esrin, while I move into position myself to stand between the two Founders. The relationship between them is puzzling. The girl has pulled out a phone to text, apparently having lost interest in the direction our conversation has taken. By all outward appearances, she probably spends more time at a salon or with a stylist than dealing with the dirty work of handling interlopers. Meanwhile the captain — who looks to be almost twice her age — is a rough-around-the-edges, blue-collar worker without much concern about illusions of grandeur.

“My name’s Connor Lewis. Roul left me in charge.”

He scoffs. “That’s not how things go down. It used to be a dog-eat-dog world on your side of the pond.”

“Times have changed.”

I thrust my hands into my pockets, trying to be patient with the release of information. “I’m trying to change that. I need to change that. That’s why I’d like to know how your packs are organized.”

He mulls over my words, fingers tapping at the edge of the right armrest. “What’s it to you how things are run here?”

From behind him, Amara fires off a warning glance not to give away too much. Not that I need the tip. All the same, trust is a two-way street and I presume Marrock will want assurances that our enemies remain the same and that I’m not gunning for the American packs myself.

“The Hounds of God and the Luparii ... things have come to a head with them.”

He casts me a weary look. “That’s an old song.”

“It’s more of a remix — a dangerous one for all of us.”

“You’re quick to bring us into this.”

“This isn’t the seventeenth century. Your old enemies are just a plane ticket away from your front step.”

He leans forward in his seat, causing Amara to stir. “I don’t deal in speculation.”

“All I aim to achieve is survival — that of my pack and the others in Europe,” I assure them. “But let’s not pretend my goal isn’t in your best interests too.”

He stands. “I also don’t like to be told what is or isn’t in my best interests.”

“Look, I can assure you we’re here to cooperate.”

He shakes his head. “To say I’m skeptical would be an understatement. Cooperation’s not exactly a strong suit of our kind. Then again, you’re not exactly one of us, are you?”

I’d hoped to keep my secret, unsure of how it would affect my status among the born werewolves of America, but the captain is incredibly astute. No doubt that’s why he’s in his position.

“What’s the matter?” Marrock presses. “Cat got your tongue?”

“It’s ... irrelevant.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

My brain spins like a hamster on a wheel trying to come up with a way out, or at least some manner of delaying the release of the information he’s looking for. I mentally draw a line in the sand for how much I’m willing to reveal to the Founders before calling this endeavor quits. Anything that puts me or Amara in danger of not returning home isn’t worth the risk.

“Look, I go into the precinct every day and work side-by-side among humans,” Marrock explains. “I’ve learned their mannerisms and can read when they’re lying. You want to know about us and become allies? Let’s hear the truth.”

“I was born human, if that’s what you mean,” I say with what I hope is an air of nonchalance.

“Bull. You shifted into a wolf just now.”

Maintaining my cool, I continue. “I’m a hybrid. My DNA is ... different.”

“Different how?” he asks in a raised tone.

“I was bitten, but I’m just like you.”

Marrock exhales loudly. “A Hound in wolf’s clothing.”

His reaction causes Esrin to lower her device for a moment to tilt her head at me. Her eyes take me in again, making me feel no less naked than I did after the fight just moments ago.

“No Hound has ever led a pack of the born. Besides,” he starts with a wicked grin, “Rodolfus de Aquila — your kin, I can assume from your ink now — may have had a taste for humans, but not like that.”

“Times change,” is all I can say, surprised by how much he’s pieced together from so little.

“Times may change, but we don’t. We stay the same.” Marrock bows his head toward Amara. “How do we trust this isn’t some kind of a coup on your part?”

If we get out of this alive, I’m going to have words with Amara. Whatever secret she’s kept from me is one that’s proving to be a thorn in my paw.

“She’s here at my request, and like I said we’re here against a common enemy. The Luparii are working with a scientist by the name of Henri Boguet.” His name garners no response. Boguet must have been more of a local problem up until recently, so I change tack. “He was brought to trial by the Hounds of God, where we found out the hard way that the Luparii are financially backing his research. They now have a bio-weapon called Wolf’s Bane.”

“So far this sounds like something out of a comic book,” Marrock interrupts. “And you’re in the wrong Gotham.”

Although he may not be impressed, I see that my report has finally caught Esrin’s fleeting attention.

She asks, “What precisely is this ... Wolf’s Bane?”

“I’ll tell you,” I start, “after you give me something to go on. Fair is fair. I didn’t come all this way just to share all our secrets and find out the rumors about the packs here were just that.”

She smiles but offers nothing. After a pause, Marrock speaks up.

“The packs here are unified, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“How is the bigger question.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Your turn.”

“Alright, well, Amara’s mate was the first to fall victim to the effects of Wolf’s Bane. He was a born wolf, lived among a pack for centuries, but now...” I don’t know how to finish my sentence. ‘Cure’ is a poor choice of word.

“Now,” Amara picks up the story, taking a pause as if to muster up the courage to face the next words. “Now he will live out the rest of his life and die as a human.”

Esrin and Marrock exchange a look. The ensuing silence gives me a tenuous hope. Whatever brought them here, whatever they ran from in the Old World, they must understand what we’re going through now. They didn’t leave so long ago that they could have forgotten their fear.

“What a terrible tragedy,” Esrin remarks, but her lofty voice makes it hard to discern whether her concern is in earnest.

“A lot more have been hit with Wolf’s Bane since,” I explain, clinging to her interest. “Not just from my pack. We’re on the precipice of war, the likes of which I doubt even you’ve seen before.”

Marrock shakes his head. “The Hounds won’t go down without a fight.”

“The Hounds are divided. For some of them Wolf’s Bane is a blessing. I wouldn’t count on them to save us.”

“So you’ve come here?”

“Before he died, Rodolfus tasked me with bringing the packs together.”

Esrin’s eyes alight, warm brown in the glow of her olive skin. “Marrock has said that Rodolfus de Aquila was always one of high ideals.”

“You knew him,” I remark to the captain.

“Our paths crossed,” he answers mysteriously.

“Why he chose to stay behind is baffling,” Esrin adds.

I start to see how lines were drawn all those years ago. Where these werewolves saw no end to the war and persecution against their kind, Roul saw the opportunities in the Old World not just to live among humans but to profit from them. But that only got him so far. He led the pack of a single city, albeit among the largest. Stacked against an entire continent it amounts to nothing. Especially when compared with the organized armies of the Hounds amassing in covert places and the Luparii marksmen lurking out of sight. How big a pack could Roul have led when most packs contain so few? More importantly, how many can I lead now?

“He reorganized his pack so they could live among humans like you have, and he continued fighting off the enemy after all of you took off,” I say, my cadence accented with anger.

They have no right to judge him. They’re the ones who ran from the fight, collective tails tucked between their legs. The posture of the Founders has changed, though I can’t say if it’s for better or for worse. Marrock turns to gaze out one of the apartment’s many windows, rubbing his grizzled face with one hand.

“Oh goodness, darling!” Esrin declares with a flare of her hands. “You’re being entirely too dramatic.”

“Am I? We’re facing a common enemy that’s better organized, better equipped and driven by their hate. If I fall, we all do.”

Marrock snarls, firing a glare at me.

“What do you think’s going to happen once they’re done with us? You don’t imagine they’ll come after you next? Borders mean nothing to the Luparii. They’re not waging war on my pack, or the European packs, they’re eliminating all werewolves.”

“Let’s say we show you how to unite the Old World packs,” Marrock ponders aloud. “What makes you think you got better odds against them?”

The next subject is one that I have to broach delicately in order to keep myself out of harm’s way and not be held captive as some kind of genetic pawn. “We’re working on the inoculation against Wolf’s Bane.”

He squints at me. “Alright, now suppose that’s true. You ever seen a war that wasn’t on some computer game or movie?”

“That’s hardly your concern.”

“It is if we take a chance on you,” he says matter-of-factly. “If we give you this information, we need to be sure we’re getting a good return on our investment. A union of packs is a dangerous thing. Without a firm hand it can cause just as many problems as you want to solve.”

“If you think I’m ambitious enough to cross the Atlantic with an army, you’re mistaken.”

He shrugs. “How do I know?”

Amara bristles. “We are honor-bound.”

“Not in this economy,” Marrock scoffs.

“What can I offer to set your minds at ease?” I ask. “A legally binding contract?”

It’s a joke, but the Founders exchange a look that I can’t read. Without answering immediately, Esrin rises from the sofa again and the wolves follow suit, stretching out and yawning before trotting to the door. Marrock picks up a red file folder from a glass-top coffee table and hands it to me.

“Great minds think alike,” is all Esrin says as she strides past us to her furry companions.

Flipping open to the contents, I see a legal contract with Phenix Industries and my contact information left blank. As my eyes scan the document I’m barely able to make any sense of the rest of it. For all intents and purposes it might as well be the end-user license agreement for my iTunes account.

“Don’t tell me,” I start, “you’re a lawyer.”

She laughs in a haughty manner but doesn’t answer. It would be a kind of farce if the Founders turned out to be some version of Law & Order: Special Werewolf Unit. Marrock doesn’t find any humor in it, though, so I keep quiet as Esrin gestures around us extravagantly.

“Do make yourselves at home here.”

Marrock adds, “This is just a temporary setup until we get you sorted out. Oh, and I wouldn’t think about straying too far from here.”

I take from his delivery that he means ‘not at all.’ With another wave, Esrin says, “Ta-ta, darlings,” and I just watch as they leave together. The door closes behind them with a definitive click. I let out a sigh of relief. I have no idea what the Founders have in store for us next, but if every step toward gaining the information I need to unite the packs is going to be as grueling and time-consuming as this, I hope the others back home can hold the fort long enough for me to return.