4. HOLD ON

 

Amara lets out a long sigh as though she was holding her breath during the entire standoff. Now that we’re out of the sights of Marrock’s snipers — at least to the best of our knowledge — I lock my own sights on her.

“What the hell, Amara?”

She puts a hand on my cheek. I grab her wrist to pull it away, determined not to be disarmed.

“I’m not your home-stay kid anymore.”

Turning her eyes downward, she withdraws her hand to her side.

“What’s your history with Esrin?”

“She was an adolescent,” she says softly, loping away toward the sofa. “I did not think she would remember.”

“You thought wrong. And it could have been a costly mistake.”

After a pause she seats herself where the girl was sitting. She has the kind of natural grace that, unlike Esrin, comes without any airs of wealth or pretension. I know virtually nothing about Amara except for her unwavering love for Arden, her soul mate. Even after his ‘human’ death, which made him an ‘untouchable’ to other werewolves, she was still willing to lay down her exponentially longer life for him at the High Court of Magdeburg in Quedlinburg. She pats the cushion next to her, and as I take my place by her side I’m reminded of a conversation we had in the woods behind Madison’s boarding house in Paris. It was in the moments after I’d discovered werewolves were not just the stuff of nightmares. Now she has a different story to tell.

“When our paths crossed,” Amara says as she looks across the room to the New York skyline, “my pack — what was left of my pack — was in search of new territory after a flood decimated our territory and numbers. We became nomads, wandering in search of a place where we could settle. After such a devastating loss, those of us remaining sought out an ideal territory where such a thing could never occur again, one that I understood only later could not possibly exist. Eventually we came upon a wide canyon of white pumice pocketed with deep crevices. We did not realize until it was too late that these openings were, in fact, cave dwellings.”

I anticipate the part that comes next: the ambush. Her face doesn’t reveal any underlying emotion, but my picture of her is clearer as a result. It’s impossible to gauge werewolves using human metrics. What seems like emotional detachment to me is actually my inability to see how much more visceral their lives are and always have been.

“The inhabitants descended upon us as we camped one night,” she continues, entrenched in the memory. “Dozens of white wolves, the likes of which we had never seen before, flooded into the valley like ghosts. Unknown to us as the time, it was, in fact, the dust from the stone of their caves that colored their fur. Their alphas stood among them in their human forms, skin also powdered white and garbed in lavish caftans of indigo blue with silver thread weavings that made it appear as though they were coming down upon us from the very stars. Once they determined we numbered so few against them, they made a cruel game of the fights. The alphas sent back the rest of the pack to watch from high above, snarling and jeering at us. One by one we were matched in single combat, the eldest and strongest of each pack first. I could do nothing but watch as the alphas fought and killed what few remained of my kin, and all the while our audience barked its approval of the outcome like spectators at a sporting event. I was the youngest, just older than you, and therefore the last to fight. The one I was paired against was larger than me by at least a half. The moment he stripped out of his caftan and the light of the moon shone upon his near-perfect body, I knew I was outmatched. I was desperate and furious, but I could not defeat him with my strength alone.”

I’m almost afraid to ask, “What did you do?”

She turns to face me. “I abandoned our code and I killed him, with a blade, before he could even shift.”

My jaw drops. I don’t even know the word to describe my horror at the very idea. ‘Ungallant’ is too human a concept, and as it stands she’s completely unmoved by my human reaction. I knew so little about this exotic, talented artist among my pack, but I should have been prepared for her revelation. Lurking beneath every werewolf is a dangerous killer.

“A girl in beautiful garb like the others stepped forward after the general shock had passed. She looked to me like a little princess as she knelt by the side of the one I had killed. I had foolishly left the weapon in my enemy, and when she pulled the blade from his heart, my hopes of leaving their arena alive diminished. It was a game to them, the fights. Instead of turning my weapon on me she wiped it clean on her caftan and stood, slipping the sword under her belt. The girl pointed to herself. ‘Esrin,’ she enunciated clearly, as though she wanted me to commit her name to memory. ‘Beyazkurt,’ she said, gesturing to our silent audience. Then she pointed to me. Not knowing what else to say or do, I told her my name. She repeated it. ‘Amara Liang.’ Those should have been the last words I ever heard. But they were not. She simply gestured for me to leave. And I did. That was the only time we met and the only thing I know about her.”

I fall back against the sofa, stunned and trying to process where that leaves us. “She couldn’t have taken control of the pack at such a young age.”

Amara’s brow furrows. “If there was any moral to my tale, you should know that it is imprudent to underestimate those who, on surface value, appear to be the weakest link.”

With a grimace, I retort, “I thought maybe it was more along the lines of always remember to bring a gun to a knife fight.”

“Regardless,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm as usual, “these are not her old caves. We cannot know if she came to the New World alone or with her old pack. To bring many packs together under one rule would call for extraordinary measures.”

“So she somehow teams up with Marrock as her enforcer? He isn’t exactly the weakest link.” I show the blood on my handkerchief as proof.

“We have yet to ascertain his role, though I suspect Captain Marrock is not as he seems. It may well be that they took control by force, which makes this arrangement no better than what the Hounds have tried to accomplish in Europe.”

“Maybe their success comes from not being so heavy-handed,” I offer. “Maybe they ... negotiated a peaceful agreement.”

Her silence speaks volumes. Werewolves only know one way to negotiate, and it usually ends with one party limping off, or worse. It’s not a complicated system of rule, unlike the Hounds of God with their centuries of case law and precedence to back their religious morals and human values. Politicking in the realm of werewolves has been left mostly in their hands. Roul was an exception. He sought out ways to outmaneuver the enemy and undermine its power. Something about how the Founders operate has to be different from how things run in Europe, and I need to learn what it is.

“We don’t know,” I say, “and we won’t know until they tell us more.”

I stand and walk toward one of the windows looking out over a place I once called home, now seeing a hidden city I never knew — the butcher shops, the parks, the safe-houses and who knows what else below in the streets. Although I don’t profess to know the inner lives of werewolves, it’s odd to think that Esrin would have shown mercy. Then again, Roul once told me that vengeance is a human invention. All I know is that what just transpired between us and the Founders has opened up more questions than we came with.

“You should get some rest,” I advise.

“As should you.”

With a sigh I follow Amara’s lead and pick up our bags where we left them at the door. Just out of curiosity, I reach for the handle of what appears the only exit. Surprisingly, it opens. I peer out the crack of space to see one of Marrock’s cops leaning against the frame edge. He looks back over his shoulder and acknowledges me with a nod.

“You need something, sir?”

Sir, again. Protocol, everything is protocol. I shake my head and shut the door, resigned to stay here until I figure out our next course of action. Upstairs, the bedrooms are no less futuristic than the rest of the apartment. A California king-size bed is tucked into a curved alcove with a swath of pale carpet ringed in a semi-circle to match the curve of the plaster that juts down from the ceiling. The room itself is spacious, made even more so because of the sparse furnishings. I toss my jacket onto a blue swivel chair on a chrome base and take off my shoes as I head for the bed. I collapse onto my back on the plush white duvet, staring up at the bright white paint and beams that stretch out from the wall. Something about the design of the ceiling reminds me of the USS Enterprise. On the enormous bed I have a sensation of being set adrift.

I check my phone again. No word from Madison. I expected, at the very least, some kind of eye-rolling emoticon in response to my last message. It’s been weird between us, to say the least. Our first kiss in Quedlinburg was also our last, owing to the distance we’ve had to put between us. Not that there’s much time to think about it with everything else that’s at stake. A yawn brings forth a deep and sudden yearning for sleep. Before jet lag catches up to me, I email the link provided on the contract to my corporate lawyer, Thierry Mercier, who I met in Germany in the days before Roul was killed. Curiosity trumps my immediate need for sleep and I do a web search for Phenix Industries, not expecting to find much. The landing page of their corporate website is fairly harmless at first, presenting an image of a compact fluorescent light bulb with an invitation to “Seek new frontiers in energy.” From there the front page slideshow moves from unmanned space exploration technology and makes a quick descent into military weapons.

That gets my attention real fast.

Pushing past my exhaustion, I delve deeper into the site to discover Phenix Industries is first and foremost in the business of dealing arms; leaders in cutting edge technology. They’re not exactly the American equivalent of Fenrir Pharmaceuticals. Rodolfus de Aquila may have been a drug dealer of sorts, having founded a pharmaceutical company using the biochemical composition of werewolves, but the man with the facial tattoo ran a billion-dollar corporation that rescued humans from the brink of disease. Roul worked very hard to build the empire that he left in my control.

Marrock’s role in all of this still puzzles me. As I toss around the possibilities of what a defense contractor could have to do with the NYPD, I make the mistake of closing my eyes and am caught in a web of sleep. When I wake it’s with that strange confusion of not quite remembering where I’d fallen asleep. It’s pitch dark outside and everything around me is unfamiliar until I look up and see the Star Trek-style ceiling. My stomach growls ferociously, forcing me to forage for food.

I pad downstairs to the vast kitchen, which is no less futuristic in decor than the rest of the place. When I turn on the lights I’m met by more luminous white walls and floors spotted with the reflective sparkle of stainless steel appliances and countertops. A collection of photographs is mounted on one wall, showcasing sketches and head shots of Esrin as well as two other guys about her age. They look similar, but not enough that I can assume they’re siblings. The guys are likely the wolves from earlier today — part of her entourage.

I take a deep breath before opening the massive fridge and prepare myself for the raw nightmare that likely waits on the other side: whole skinned rabbits or plucked foul with heads still attached. I still haven’t wholly accepted the raw food diet. Anything could be lurking behind the steel door. When I open it I find nothing of the sort. The shelves are filled with high-end food items I’ve only ever seen on reality TV or cooking shows in times of extreme boredom: tins of caviar, quail eggs, some kind of rock-shaped fungus that I can only assume is truffle. Where I would usually put orange juice are several bottles of champagne. I take one out to inspect the label up close: Cristal. A nearby noise alerts me to the fact that I’m not alone. Quietly, I peer out of the kitchen and into the living area, where Esrin appears with her two cohorts, both in their human form. They’re all dressed like they’re about to go VIP clubbing. Noticeably absent is Marrock. From a distance it looks like Esrin’s dress is covered in golden dragon scales. The pattern of sequins flares out like flames at the top of her chest and at the bottom midway down her thighs, clinging to the bony edges of her skeletal frame. A sheer mesh fabric along the sides leaves just enough to the imagination.

“Great minds,” she remarks as she takes the bottle from my hands while the two guys collect champagne flutes from one of the cupboards.

“I was just looking,” I say despite being caught red-handed. “I’m not here to party with you.”

“How do you expect to earn our trust if you can’t let your guard down for one night?”

She peels the gold foil from the neck of the bottle, crumples it into a ball, and drops it onto the floor like Kanye would a mic. Giving me a sly smile, she shakes the bottle. I try to step away as she wiggles the cork but it’s too late. It blows with a loud pop, barely a foot away from me, and the hard knot of it strikes me dead center of the chest as champagne shoots out across my dress shirt. The guys laugh as they hold the glasses out to catch the overflow. I rub the spot on my chest more for effect than because it hurt. Esrin just sets aside the bottle in order to claim two flutes. She offers one to me, which I refuse with a shake of my head.

“I think I got more than my share of it already,” I say, pointing to my soaked shirt.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” she insists, extending her offering at chest-level while poking one fingertip precisely in the spot where the cork struck.

I take it reluctantly, wondering how much of this is a test and how much is just her toying with me. It’s not often that a girl takes serious interest in me — not without serious consequences, anyway. I’m not about to let my guard down because of a little flirting.

“What is going on here?” Amara asks, appearing in the space between the kitchen and living area.

“We’re celebrating,” Esrin replies.

She snaps her fingers for one of her companions to pour up another glass. When he offers it to Amara she merely glances between the champagne and Esrin before settling her gaze on the latter.

“What is it that you are celebrating?” Amara asks warily.

“Our reunion, of course.” Esrin holds up her glass. “Forgive and forget.”

There’s a long silence as they stare each other down, neither wavering. This standoff between them has to end before we wind up re-enacting the circumstances of their meeting so many years ago.

I clear my throat and offer, “I’ll cheers to that.”

Despite whatever she may be thinking, Amara slowly and purposefully accepts the drink and raises her glass before taking a tiny, delicate sip. Esrin tilts her head back and guzzles her drink in one gulp. One of the guys is at the ready to refill her glass and moves to do the same to mine, but I decline, having barely skimmed my lips over the bitter drink. If this is the best that champagne has to offer, it must be an acquired taste.

“Come along, we need to get you out of those wet clothes.” Esrin paws at my sleeve.

I don’t budge. “I’m fine.”

“You are that,” she says in a silky voice, “but you can’t go out covered in bubbly, darling.”

“Where are we going?”

“A pop-up club,” she declares and reiterates, “to celebrate.”

Memories of La Pleine Lune come to me unbidden, and I gaze down at the pale silvery scar on the hand where I was bitten. It is the foremost pivotal turning point in my life. Without that bite the wolf lurking within me would never have been unleashed, Wolf’s Bane wouldn’t exist, Roul would still be alive and I wouldn’t be here trying to make up for everything that happened after that moment.

“I don’t do the underground scene. I mean that literally.”

She slides across the champagne-slick floor toward me. I instinctively back away until I’m up against the cold fridge and she’s pressed up against me, her hipbone digging into my thigh. I have nowhere to go. Her hand snakes around the back of my neck. Up close, her catlike eyes are made to appear more so with black eyeliner and obviously fake lashes. Diamond-encrusted earrings glimmer against her skin, which is unnaturally tanned given the sun-deprived time of year. I’m almost overpowered by what I can only assume is the combination of scents from high-end shampoo, moisturizer and perfume. Everything about her screams high maintenance.

“You aren’t playing very nicely,” she teases. “Amara, please talk some sense into him. He’s far too young to be so serious.”

With my forearm I create a boundary between us, laying it across the width of her shoulders, hoping to push her back to arm’s length. The front door opens before she can counter, and when the two sidekicks straighten upright with a military snap, it’s obvious that the individual who’s entered the premises isn’t someone to be ignored.

“Captain Marrock,” Esrin coos. “Welcome to the party. We were just starting without you.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as she retreats and puts a more appropriate distance between us. He comes into view next to Amara, dressed in his civvies: faded jeans and a plaid shirt under a hoodied leather jacket. Putting his hands on his hips, he takes a mental picture of the scene without a word. It’s still pretty obvious that Esrin has me cornered by the fridge, but pushing away at this point would give the wrong impression. Standing like this isn’t doing me any favors either, like a high school couple whose parents just walked in at exactly the wrong moment. Esrin fulfills her role flawlessly, though. With her hand still clasped around the back of my neck, she presses a light kiss against my lips. A mischievous smile plays on her lips when she pulls away. Now it’s her turn to wait for a response from Marrock.

“That’s enough now,” he says.

“Is it?”

“You got business to conduct, you conduct it during business hours. Visiting hours are over.”

With a roll of her eyes she steps back and tilts her glass to finish her champagne. After she’s done she daintily extends the crystal flute out by her side, like the ball of foil before it, dropping it to the kitchen floor, where it shatters. She walks out of the kitchen like a rock star, her entourage falling into step behind her as they make their exit past Marrock, who shows no emotion.

When they’re gone he says, “And you ... don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“What you saw is not even close to what you think it was,” I tell him.

Amara moves defensively to my side, stepping across the broken glass.

“I may not know you, but I know her. Just ... don’t bite.”

“It’s not my intention to,” I insist, giving pause to let it sink in. Happily, we seem to be on the same side in this. “Speaking of biting ... the food situation is somewhat bleak. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure a diet of champagne and caviar is excellent.”

This time my sarcasm is lost on him, or at least he doesn’t acknowledge the humor. Instead he gives the kitchen one final scan, and I want to distance myself from the mess.

“You’ll figure it out. The maid comes in at nine a.m. A car will pick you up at 8:30.”

I step around broken glass, my socks sopping up some of the spilled Cristal. My trousers are the only thing not dripping with champagne at this point. “Where will the car take us?”

“That depends on you. Sign the contract and you go to Phenix Industries. Don’t sign it and you get back on that jet of yours.”

If I want to get any further along here, I’ll have no choice but to agree to their terms. The legal term for what they’re doing is called ‘duress’, compelling a person to do something under the threat of unwanted consequences. It would easily void a contract, even if there were a court of law that they’d be willing to argue in front of. I don’t understand all the pretense of a contractual obligation when it means so little and there are so many other ways they could retaliate for my non-compliance.

“Why Phenix Industries? I’m not interested in amassing weapons.”

“You sure about that? You’re not exactly here looking for ways to make nice with the Hounds.”

“What does this contract get me? Does Phenix Industries represent the American packs?”

He shrugs and makes to leave.

“Look, I figure the contract wasn’t your idea but ... what do I have to do to earn your trust?”

Holding a hand up he suggests, “One step at a time here.”

And with that he leaves. Behind me, Amara rummages through the fridge as I pace across the floor. A fine time to be eating. My stomach grumbles insistently as Amara snips the top off a quail egg and sucks back the innards. I’m more confused about what’s waiting for me here than I was before I left Paris. I wonder what Roul would have done — what lengths he would have gone to in order to save the pack. I have to believe that he wouldn’t have put everything in my hands if he didn’t know I’d do the right thing. My word would have been enough to another pack leader. Lies, deceit and cheating are all human traits. Esrin and these Founders’ thought processes are any unlike any other werewolf I’ve met. Maybe living among humankind has rubbed off on them, for better or worse. Without bothering to follow-up with my lawyer, I take the contract from the coffee table and sign the bottom. For better or for worse.