5. ROYALS

 

Amara and I spend the rest of the night awake sprawled out on the living room sofas but not saying much about anything. The next morning, signed contract in my hand and a makeshift breakfast of smoked salmon croustades in our bellies, we’re picked up by a limo at 8:30 a.m. and brought to one of the business towers in Lower Manhattan. The building itself is unremarkable for a skyscraper and simply doesn’t stand out in the business district. A typical foyer of marbled granite gleams from being buffed every night and at the front kiosk a middle-aged security guard sits back in his swivel chair pretending not to notice us while we scan the directory. We cram into a packed elevator full of morning rush-hour suits. At each stop we lose more and more occupants in a slow trickle until Amara and I are alone with our thoughts and the hum of light jazz. The doors open with a typical bing at the top floor of the building. I’m not entirely surprised to find myself surrounded by yet even more futuristic decor. From what I’ve witnessed so far, Esrin is less than practical, and this place of business looks more like an ad agency that’s trying too hard than a defense contractor. The walls of the reception area are a shiny black and white highlighted with red trim. Chrome half-moon lighting fixtures hang at various heights from the high ceiling. The corporate logo for Phenix Industries is emblazoned in crimson light behind the reception desk: a fiery phoenix in a globe that reminds me a little of the Klingon logo. I’m starting to think that Esrin just hired a set designer from the Star Trek franchise as her interior decorator.

The receptionist looks at us expectantly.

“I’m Connor Lewis.”

She continues to stare at us without saying anything, clearly waiting for more. I can’t seem to wrap my tongue around Esrin’s last name, and I’m unsure if I should refer to her as an individual or the Founders as a whole. The woman behind the shiny desk scans around in confusion as she picks up her cellphone to check the time.

“We’re expected,” I insist.

“Yes, I — of course, Mister Lewis,” she fumbles with her words as she hastily fires off a text message. “It’s just that, well ... they don’t usually have a nine o’clock.”

She stands suddenly, white teeth gleaming under the harsh lighting, pushing the envelope on what a pleasant smile should be. I was never a morning person, but life has handed me a hefty dose of unwanted responsibilities that require an early start to my day. Now I imagine Esrin and the boys staying out all night at whatever underground club they went to. There’s no doubt in my mind that sending us here was just an excuse to ruffle some feathers within their mysterious hierarchy. Obviously Marrock didn’t consider this scenario when sending the car for us. The receptionist’s phone pings with the arrival of a text message.

“This way, please,” she says as she comes out from behind the low partition that separates her work station from the waiting area.

We’re taken beyond two shimmering black doors, where an open concept office awaits us. People — actual human people, not werewolves — buzz around, wearing stylish business attire while talking exuberantly with each other or on their phones. I’m glad that I wore a suit. One of the bigger lessons Roul taught me was that image matters in a world that perpetually judges us. Human lore and the Luparii have deemed us to be the big bad wolf. Better we not feed the stereotype so they can’t use our appearance against us.

Desks ring the outskirts of the office space backed by floor-to-ceiling windows, while glassed-in conference rooms occupy the central area. The receptionist makes small talk with all the special treatment for a new client, offering beverages and snacks and complimenting Amara’s dress as she ushers us toward a room with blacked-out glass. She pulls open the door and we’re hustled into a large conference room that’s decked out more like a clubhouse than an office: a pool table, fully stocked bar and a cozy seating area in front of what must be at least a 100-inch TV. Esrin lounges back on a sofa wearing a red suit jacket with matching shorts and a white blouse, sipping on what looks like a Bloody Mary while scanning over something on a tablet. Her companions are by her side as usual, jeering loudly at whatever’s being broadcast on TV. Strangely, they’re not watching sports. It’s a 24-hour news channel. It’s also the first time that I’ve seen anything resembling a personality from either of them. The receptionist has disappeared behind the glass door without a word. I hold the file folder with the countersigned contract up into the air to no one in particular.

“Just set it down there, will you, darling?” Esrin instructs without the remotest interest in either me or the contract. In fact, she’s barely distracted from her tablet by our presence.

I drop the documents onto a coffee table and turn my attention to the news. The footage appears to be a decimated city block, and I’m confused because the guys are shouting out figures like brokers at a stock exchange.

“What’s all this?”

“They’re placing bets on how many casualties were suffered in—” Esrin arches her head toward the TV for a moment, “—whatever new outbreak this is.”

It’s just as well that she goes back to her tablet, because I can’t hide my disgust. There’s something very disturbing about their particular brand of wealth. Where Roul was a self-made billionaire, he had a strong moral compass and never would have stood for such repugnant behavior. Esrin and her guard dogs are more like over-indulged trust fund kids, bored into contempt.

“Where’s Marrock?”

“He has no business here,” she says, and I’m unsure if it’s meant as a double entendre.

I thrust my hands into my pants pockets. “Well, apparently we do.”

Esrin makes no effort to fill me in on why we’re here and instead merely goes back to tapping away at her tablet. With a sigh I look back to Amara and catch a glimmer of something on the wall behind her shining in the light streaming in from the early morning sun. My curiosity gets the better of me and I approach a display case. It in is one of the most ornate and beautiful swords I’ve ever seen. Its short silver blade curves upward — engraved with wolves — while the blackened iron hilt curves in the opposite direction, inscribed with Asian characters.

“Is this ... what I think it is?” I ask, glancing over at Amara, who leans in for a closer inspection.

Esrin’s attention is suddenly drawn to us and the room goes silent as she mutes the TV despite the groans of protest from the guys.

“That’s the weapon that killed my father,” she says without a smile. “Isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Amara says, standing close enough that her elbow grazes my forearm.

Her sword is small — the blade itself isn’t even a foot long — yet it took down an alpha. For something that changed the course of history for an entire pack, I imagined something more formidable.

“We’ve dated that piece to the tenth century, China,” Esrin notes, looking Amara directly in the eyes. “Beautiful and deadly.”

Esrin allows a pause for thought. She kept the sword after all these centuries, mounted and stored within a gallery frame like a precious jewel or expensive piece of artwork.

“So why aren’t we dead?” I ask. “You could have killed us ten times over by now.”

“To what end?”

I’m reminded again that predators don’t kill other predators without good reason. Revenge isn’t a trait that’s rubbed off on them yet. Relief washes over me.

“What you accomplished in one stroke altered everything,” she says to Amara, sitting upright and tossing the tablet aside. She crosses the room toward us on spindly heels, motioning for her companions to stay put. “Since then we have hungered and thirsted for only those things that make us stronger. You brought us out of our caves and into the world. You opened our eyes to the power that weapons can hold. We should thank you.”

Understanding clicks in my mind. This small blade and the surprising death that it wrought upon Esrin’s pack is what led them to become arms dealers. Hundreds of years later, they’ve risen in the New World, where they’ve had the freedom to produce and amass weapons without government interference. That blade gifted Esrin with power. I have to believe that if she’d wanted to turn that power on us, she would have done so already. If I can take her words at face value, an alliance with a weapons maker might prove useful in the coming months, but for now I’m puzzled by the obvious absence of the captain.

“Is that how Marrock sees it too?”

When she reaches us, Esrin turns to lean back against the wall and face me directly. “Captain Marrock can speak for himself, but we have not always seen eye-to-eye. It would be short-sighted not to view you as an opportunity.”

My curiosity is piqued. “What kind of an opportunity?”

“You’ve yet to show precisely what. However, you seem unlikely to disappoint.”

“Where is the captain?” Amara asks to keep the conversation on track.

“On duty with the NYPD. Fidelis ad mortem. Faithful unto death or some such saying.”

“And he left us alone?” I say.

A sly smile creeps across Esrin’s lips but then her eyes scan the room. “We’re never entirely alone.”

In my periphery I catch her meaning. The role of her companions becomes clearer: beta wolves and bodyguards. Although they laze back in their seats with their eyes on us, I catch the angular protrusion of guns in holsters beneath their jackets.

“Never?”

She shakes her head in response.

“Doesn’t that get ... claustrophobic?”

“With great power comes great mistrust.”

“That’s not how that line goes.”

A push off the wall and she’s face-to-face with me again, in the same airspace. I take a step back but she matches me.

“Haven’t you learned yet?” she says, grabbing a hold of my tie to keep me in place. “Everything in this life can be rewritten.”

I shake my head. “Not the past.”

“We don’t live in the past.”

Without a good comeback, I keep quiet.

“What is your role in all of this here at Phenix Industries?” Amara presses.

Esrin twirls the silk of my tie between her fingers as she draws out an answer. “Chief Business Development Officer. Think of it like a prospector in search of precious metals.”

Unsurprised, I say, “You like shiny new things.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, when it comes down to it, this is a business deal,” I remark, straightening out my tie and removing her hand from it in the same gesture. “We need a unified front and we need to arm ourselves for the coming war.”

She sighs dramatically. “It’s far too early for such talk.”

At first I don’t know if she means the time of day or because we’ve only just met, but then she makes it clear. “We need to trust you first.”

“And us, you,” Amara adds.

My impatience is growing, but this is the sort of game I have to play. Many cultures consider it rude getting right to the point, and so it is with this American pack. For the rest of the morning I get a crash course in international business etiquette. I’m forced to sit through endless questions that are completely irrelevant to the purpose of my visit. After a while I get the sense of being at a job interview, and at least that puts my mind at ease a little. We’re getting to know one another. She dodges my questions about the size and structure of her pack while I hide my disdain for her cavalier attitude toward human casualties of war and the overall sense that her wealth gives her an entitlement that I can’t entirely wrap my head around. At noon, we break for lunch while the conversation continues. I pick through the elaborate spread of sushi in search of something palatable and I manage to find a few California rolls while trying not to watch the others chow down on sashimi.

In the afternoon, there’s still no sign of Marrock and I begin to doubt we’ll move forward with anything in his absence. We’re given a tour of the facilities, which again reveals nothing of interest in the business offices since all the R&D takes place off-site. We’re introduced to the legal team, marketing department and the client account managers, each of whom treats us like prospective clients and walk us through various PowerPoint presentations. By the end of it all I wind up knowing more about “What Phenix Industries Can Do For You” than I do about what the Founders actually do. My frustration grows. Esrin’s role is to seek out opportunities with other organizations, and as majority shareholder of Fenrir Pharmaceuticals I can see why she’d be interested in pursuing a business relationship, but that’s not why I’m here. Unfortunately, I can’t turn the conversation toward anything werewolf-related, what with all the people around.

“Aren’t you positively thirsty after all this talk?” Esrin asks several hours after lunch, clearly bored with the schmoozing herself.

Without waiting for a response, she herds us back to the conference room, where cocktails are poured and it becomes even more clear that we’re not getting anywhere I want to take the conversation. It appears that Marrock might be a more integral part of the Founders than I initially thought. Everything that takes place here is pure business. At precisely 5 p.m. the receptionist enters to inform us that a car is waiting to take Amara and I back for the night. We drive along the rush hour-congested streets to the apartment on Centre Street to find another officer at the door, but the captain absent. I try to get answers out of the cop about when we’ll expect to see him again but I’m given a vague response about Marrock being a busy man. There are still another couple days until the weekend. I’m not sure how much more I can handle of Esrin, but I remind myself that I didn’t even expect to be able to track down the American pack so quickly. I haven’t been told of any big developments on the European front, but I also can’t help feel the time slipping away.

At least I find the fridge is fully stocked now, and not just with upscale party foods. Amara and I sit down by ourselves to a meal of ribeye steaks — mine medium-well through with a baked potato, hers room temperature with a side salad. We don’t speak. We’re both talked out. I mull over the day, trying to glean some useful information from earlier conversations — some deeper meaning I might have missed. I’m itching to go out for a run but there’s no place for me in my other form, and running on two legs isn’t appealing. The biggest green space around is Central Park, but that’s just a B-movie horror waiting to happen. So instead we fall into the comfort of old routine.

We clean up from supper and practice some hand-to-hand combat before Amara takes a long soak and leaves me to my own devices for the rest of the night. It’s nice to have this bit of normalcy now and then. Since Roul died she’s taken it upon herself to train me in martial and weapons arts, focusing just as much attention on showing me how to fight as a wolf. Sometimes she’d tell me about the history of the other packs as she knows it, but not often. She never spoke about her own history, not until she had to the other day. I expend a bit of energy shadowboxing alone in my room while considering my next steps. From a rational perspective, uniting against our common enemies should have been an easy task. But it turns out there’s no real reasoning with werewolves. In the hierarchy of needs, theirs are pretty basic and until they appreciate the threat, they won’t respect it. By then it’ll be too late. Arden’s reputation precedes him, and I hope he’ll be able to at least get some packs into hiding, but offers to make a stand together may be a bit of a long shot. Too much history between them all. If I can’t figure out how to do in Europe what the packs have managed here in America, this will only end very badly. I lie in bed for what feels like an eternity staring at the Star Trek ceiling, my mind churning through the mire of responsibilities.

At some point I must fall into a thin, restless sleep because I have no idea what time it is when my senses alert me to a stranger lurking in the shadows. Dawn is breaking and it’s a shock to see a silhouette right by my bedside, leaning over. I act quick. Grabbing a wrist, I pull the intruder down onto the bed then pounce. My forearm presses down against a throat that emits a rapidly beating pulse. It was too easy. There was no weight to throw and no resistance or fight back. Esrin stares up at me, eyes wide with surprise at my speed. I ease the tension on her neck and do a quick over-the-shoulder check for her bodyguards. The two wolves stand at the threshold of the door but make no attempt to intervene, although their hackles are slightly raised.

“The Old World is so crass,” she says.

Her rouge-painted lips curl in a sly smile as she props herself up on her elbows with her face just inches from mine. The awkwardness of the situation hits me as I realize I half straddle her atop the bed.

“What were you—”

She places a finger across my lips. The pins that secure the hair back and away from her face have come out, and dark brown locks fall loose.

“This is how one says ‘good morning’, darling.”

She plants a kiss against my left cheek and then the right. When she withdraws her finger from my lips I pull away and sit back on the bed. Her companions slump down to the floor. I’ve been deemed a plaything, not a threat. As she stares at me, I become acutely aware that I’m only wearing a T-shirt and boxer briefs.

“You’re full of surprises,” she tells me, sitting upright on the bed but not getting to her feet.

I watch her, unsure of what she’s up to. She slinks toward me. Although the gap between us is not exactly far to bridge, it seems to take her an eternity to cross.

“You’ve taken Captain Marrock off guard as well. He presumed the Old World to have been preserved in time like a living museum. He simply doesn’t know what to make of you yet. To have one so young in command...”

I say nothing, hoping it will draw out more.

“You must understand, we’ve never allowed unexpected company to stay for as long as you have,” she continues.

My brain does the quick math. “It hasn’t even been two full days yet...”

This produces a wicked little smile, like she’s keeping a secret. Esrin tilts her head and I watch her as she inspects my tattoo. Up close, not distracted by the smoke and mirrors that she hides behind, there’s a classical beauty about her, maybe a couple of years older than me by appearance, with smoldering eyes beneath thick eyebrows, an oval face and full lips. Her personality is what’s off-putting to me.

“Kin of Aquila,” she says. “You have it in your blood.”

I’m almost afraid to ask, “What’s that?”

Esrin is slow to respond, playing with the words in her mind before speaking. “A ... predisposition for greatness.”

She stabs her index finger playfully into my chest, then her hand moves up to slip seductively around my neck. Suddenly I understand her motive for being here in my bedroom. An image of Madison flashes in my mind. I wrap my hand around her wrist and pull it away. By a happy coincidence of timing, my phone rings. I hold her in my even stare. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”

Unperturbed, she lets out a husky scoff. “Every alpha male requires an alpha female.”

“I’m ... spoken for.”

A little white lie, though I’m not even sure I can call it that. A light turns on in the hallway. My free hand reaches up to push her back when a black wolf appears at the open doorway in silhouette. Amara takes in the scene — my scattered clothes around the floor, the two of us on the bed with barely an inch between us. I know it doesn’t look good for me so I take the opportunity to casually stand up to check my phone. The caller ID comes up as an unknown number. Wolf Amara glances between us but can say nothing in this form, and I doubt she would in the other. I’m still not used to the attention I get from werewolves in general, let alone female ones. I assume it’s my subtle differences from their kind — the ones I can’t see or sense myself because I wasn’t born in their world — that must pique their curiosity. A freak of nature. In my old life I was always on the periphery of everyone else, just out of full view from the rest of the world. Now it’s the same, but completely different.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” I say to Amara, and she turns without hesitation.

Bending down, I rummage through my bag, expecting a modicum of privacy from Esrin and finding none. She merely watches from the bed. With a nudge of my head I indicate the door. She sighs dramatically but complies, along with her wolves, and I shut the door behind them. I wipe at my cheeks where she kissed me in greeting. Sure enough, my fingertips come away with smears of lipstick. I wipe the rest off with the heels of my hands. There are still a lot of things I don’t get about werewolf culture. Monogamy apparently only applies to soul mates. Everything outside of that life event is considered a time where anything goes. It’s neither here nor there. Esrin’s unexpected appearance in my bedroom has only served the purpose of forcing me to push down the creeping thoughts about Madison that are trying to surface. As much as I want to, this isn’t the time to try to deal with that right now. If Esrin intends to keep surprising me, the weekend can’t come fast enough, regardless of what Marrock may have in store for me.