6. BOTH SIDES ARE EVEN

 

The next few days pass slowly with Esrin, who asks a lot of questions about Fenrir Pharmaceuticals but gives little in return, making it clear that she’s looking for some kind of in for her own business. After days of talking economics, I reiterate the threat that Boguet Biotechnology and Wolf’s Bane poses and the fact that the cure has been weaponized. I start to see that some kind of development deal might not be such a bad idea. Even if I get all the answers I need from the Founders about unification, we’ll still be faced with the very real danger of bio-weapons. It wouldn’t hurt our cause to have some kind of defense against them, although I haven’t yet mentioned that Trajan is working on an inoculation based on my DNA. While we talk business, ongoing wagers are continually placed against human lives. Esrin, it turns out, participates in a limited capacity, announcing her numbers at the start and leaving the accounting to her companions, who eagerly watch the news of devastation unfold. Maybe I’m so deeply angered by their behavior because of my own human self-interest. Whether they’ve bet against me is yet to be determined. They live as though they’re above the law, and with Marrock on their side maybe they are. I myself find it increasingly difficult to be in their presence. Even our catered lunches are foods that speak more to Esrin’s extravagances than to my palate — lobster ravioli one day, a poached partridge on another. I’d love to just grab a slice or even a dog from a street vendor at this point.

Every day I check my phone for messages. There are none. I was sure Madison would be safely in Paris by now. Then again, maybe she didn’t want to leave. Or maybe something happened to Arden en route. It was dangerous enough for him to swing by the apartment before Amara and I left for the airport, but my rationale was twofold: one, to get Trajan samples of my blood and venom, two, to give Arden and Amara a chance to say a proper goodbye. Far be it from me to know what it’s like to have a soul mate, but with our enemies at the gate it’s the least I could do for them. All the same, someone would have been in touch by now if something had gone wrong. It could just be that Madison is pissed with me for meddling and trying to keep her out of harm’s way. Sometimes her wrath is just the cost of having her in my life. Finally, Friday night comes. After Amara and I have a quiet supper, Marrock enters the apartment again, this time without Esrin and her companions — something of a relief. I hope to have a bit of a reprieve from them this weekend.

“Where have you been all week?” I ask.

“I got a day job,” he says, tapping at his shield.

“And I’ve got better things to do. Don’t we have an agreement?”

“You and me?” He gestures between us with his index and middle fingers. “We got nothing right now.”

“That’s hardly on me. How do you expect us to move forward when you haven’t been a part of the conversation? There are a lot of lives at stake, Marrock. I came here for answers.”

He tilts his head at me, amused. “Well, tonight’s your lucky night. We got trouble with the Wilds.”

I try to mask my confusion. “What are the Wilds?”

“Get dressed and you’ll find out soon enough.”

I look down at my suit. “Dressed how? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

With a shake of his head he says, “Where the Wilds live, you’re gonna get your hands dirty.”

Amara shoots me a skeptical look but says nothing. Answers will have to wait, obviously, if he’s sticking to this line. I quickly change into the black popover shirt and slacks that I still have on loan from Arden. Outside of my bespoke suits it’s still the fanciest designer outfit in my wardrobe and is probably mismatched with my Chuck Taylor sneakers which I only packed for running. I was trying to impress. Marrock stands waiting impatiently for us by the exit. He radios in to dispatch when Amara and I return.

“C’mon then,” he says, opening the door and holding it for us. When he closes it behind us, he remarks in a knowing tone, “I told you not to get too cozy.”

His hostility is tinged with something deeper that I can’t quite pin.

“If you have something to say to me, say it.”

He purses his lips to withhold a snarl. “I got eyes and ears all over the place. Nothing you do goes unnoticed here.”

That much has been obvious — the officers posted outside the apartment door every night, the drivers escorting us outside, and probably even Esrin’s bodyguards. The latter seem to be skirting the line of loyalty among the Founders, equal parts cognizant of Marrock’s presence yet unruly when the leash is loosened by Esrin. Regardless, even though Marrock’s been absent for most of the week he hasn’t been left in the dark. We walk outside, where his unmarked black Ford Interceptor waits at the curb, parked illegally. The air around us is a cold, leaden blanket. I take the front passenger seat and Amara climbs into the back, planting herself squarely in the middle of the vehicle. She leans slightly forward, hands on thighs as if ready to pounce on Marrock if instructed to do so. Unlike Arden, I’ve never doubted her vigilance over me is out of genuine concern. Before I knew anything about this world, her sincere desire to protect me was abundantly clear. Amara is intricately tied to my fate. The venom that coursed through my veins to awaken the wolf in me was hers, albeit accidental and with unforeseen consequences. We’ve been through so much together in such a short span that I can’t begin to doubt her now. The cruiser pulls into late evening traffic and Marrock turns on the vehicle’s flashing lights that alternate red and blue from the top of the windshield.

Before I can ask him where we’re headed, he pulls the two-way radio from the dash. “Marrock to central.”

“Central,” a voice squawks over the frequency.

“I’m en route to City Hall Park. Please advise unit sixty-six.”

“Ten-four.”

It all seems very serious, like we’re on official police business, even though I’m certain the Wilds that we’re meeting have teeth and claws and fur like the rest of us. But I’ll see for myself soon enough. We speed down the busy streets in a city that never sleeps. I’ve never traveled this route in an unmarked police car. My sleepless nights used to involve staying up until dawn playing with RPGs.

“City Hall, huh? I guess I see what you mean by Wilds,” I say in an attempt to pick up some information. No reaction. “How long have you been a cop?”

He shoots me a withering look. “I didn’t take you as one for small talk.”

“I know nothing about you.”

“Good.”

When we come to an intersection, he slows and sounds the siren in a yelp, forcing the other vehicles clear to the right. He maneuvers the car deftly through the traffic.

“You’ve heard of Five Points?” he asks me.

I look out my window. “I grew up here, remember? This was all Gangs of New York territory.” I speak confidently, even though everything I know about the neighborhood comes from the movie.

“Yeah, that’s right. A disease-ridden, crime-infested slum overrun by all kinds.”

“Including werewolves?”

“Like I said, all kinds. They say that Five Points used to have the highest homicide rate of any slum in the world — one murder a night until they paved it over.” He grins. “Supposedly there are alligators and ninja turtles in the sewers too. It’s a load of malarkey. This used to be a rough part of town, though. The Founders cleaned up Five Points. And we’ve kept it that way.”

“So you’ve been a cop since back then.”

“I’ve been keeping the law since well before this country was even drawn on a map.”

My mind goes to the tattoo I saw earlier of the coat of arms, and I imagine him as a knight at some point in his long life. We pull into City Hall Park, where we’re greeted by a patrol car with its lights flashing marking a roadblock that cordons off a wide area around the front entrance. A uniformed officer lets us through one of the barriers with a nod. Marrock slowly pulls the vehicle through then shuts the engine at Park Row, where traffic is being diverted. We step out into the cold night air again and follow Marrock, who moves briskly. City Hall itself is just beyond the trees, away from the street and in the center of the park, but we’re not heading in that direction. He leads us straight to an old subway entrance. At the bottom of the staircase are barred metal doors. It appears as if there’s no way ahead, and the animal in me stirs with the claustrophobic sense of being cornered. The very human part of me is reminded of traveling underground to La Pleine Lune beneath Paris, where Arden brought me to meet his pack. Whatever lurks beyond these doors is the stuff of most people’s nightmares.

Marrock radios to dispatch again on his handheld. “We’re on location now.”

“Ten-six.”

My ears pick up the faint echo of a voice on the other side of the metal wall, followed by a metallic rattle of locks. Amara is silent and wary, eyes scanning around in anticipation as the gate whines open. We’re met by another uniformed cop, ordinarily a welcome presence in a questionable situation, but he’s clearly part of Marrock’s pack. Regardless, whatever we’re about to see is what we’ve come here for. I follow Marrock as he leads us through the gate and underground. The officer pulls the door shut behind us, making me jump as it deadbolts with a clang. From the inside both doors have white placards with red lettering that simply read:

TO OPEN

TURN HANDLE

& PUSH BAR

It appears as though we came in through an emergency exit — one-way at that. A bare light bulb protected by wire casing hangs above us next to a red metal box that would normally activate an alarm, but it’s either been disarmed or permanently disabled. The air is cool and still down here. We walk through a part of the subway system that’s obviously no longer in use. There are no cigarette butts or trash around the old station, no smell but that rare scent of stale air and dust that abandoned urban spaces give off. It smells to me of absence. We come to a black metal grate that declares in white lettering “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” The message is clear. Marrock fumbles opening a padlock before pulling back the grate. We descend even deeper. Carved wooden railings, an oddly ornate detail for mass public transportation, line the staircase walls. The decor grows increasingly more elaborate as we approach the platform. I stop for a moment to take it all in. The ceiling arches above our heads, covered by green and white ceramic tiles. Brass chandeliers hang from the arches at intervals, enough to light up the station, while stained glass skylights are as dark as the night. I’m not an art buff but there’s something distinctly Art Deco about our surroundings. A massive brass plaque on the wall provides details of the place. I’d heard of the abandoned Old City Hall Station. The 6 train loop comes through here before its last stop at Brooklyn Bridge. I never expected it to be this extravagant.

“This place is anything but wild,” I observe, my voice echoing off the tiles in the silence.

Marrock makes his way to the end of the platform, which curves sharply despite the short length. The uniform stands at the base of the stairs, hands on his utility belt, for some reason blocking our exit. Amara stays close to me as I attempt to maintain my outer cool.

“We got a ways to go yet,” Marrock says. “This is just step one.”

He pulls a flashlight from his belt then leaps off the platform and onto the tracks. I get a much clearer picture of where we’re going — somewhere into the cavernous depths of the New York City subway system, where no transit authority in the world would allow an urban explorer. I approach with caution, every fiber knowing I should resist what I’m about to do while Amara moves steadily and confidently alongside me. She’s accustomed to navigating the underground world. La Pleine Lune parties used to take place every full moon, and it required navigating through abandoned mines and other strange places before reaching the venue. I doubt she ever needed a map to find the place. It’s possible dangers lurked below Paris — cave-ins and other unthinkable things — but these are live tracks. There’s a distinct chance we’ll be killed by a train. My eyes follow the flashlight’s beam pointing out into darkness as Marrock looks down the length of the track.

He glances back and offhandedly cautions, “Watch out for the third rail.”

He shows no sign of waiting for us and begins walking down the track. Well, I wanted something to finally happen. With a deep breath and a silent prayer to the powers that be, I make the leap off the platform, Amara landing at exactly the same time precisely in the middle of the tracks. Without a word we file in behind Marrock again, careful to follow his footsteps lest we accidentally stray onto the electrified rail. I have to hope the trains aren’t running on this line while we’re doing whatever the hell it is we’re doing. The other officer takes up the rear again, forcing us along. At first the tunnel gives me a sense of claustrophobia, mostly because of the limit to where we can step and the pervading sense that a train is going to blow through us at any moment. Eventually the space opens up to make room for a second track and we all move off to walk along a bed of gravel on the outside edge. It’s almost absolutely dark here, but I catch occasional glimpses of graffiti and garbage in the flicker of flashlights. The rank smell of animals hits me before I see them. A pair of eyes glimmer in the darkness. Then another. They’re wolves, but I can’t tell how many. Marrock produces a road flare, which he cracks open and tosses toward the creatures. The tunnel is bathed in a red glow and their eyes shine red in the light. The cops stow their flashlights away as the uniformed officer makes his way to the other side of the animals. As the low symphony of growls rises, I take a better look at the three wolves. As a group they’re mangy and appear to be half-starved. They could easily be mistaken for feral dogs.

Marrock says, “These are the Wilds.”

I have to ask the obvious. “What are they doing down here?”

He shakes his head. “What’s up above, they don’t want to be a part of.”

“So, you just leave them here like this?” The disgust in my voice can’t be hidden.

“They don’t want nothing to do with humans.”

My hand goes up to rub the back of my head in frustration, but I stop myself to cross my arms instead. “Don’t tell me this is how you unify them, by keeping them in captivity.”

“This is exactly the sort of life we’re saving them from,” he tells me. “I got seven packs of Wilds living under my jurisdiction, spread all over North America. The ones that come to places like this don’t know any better. It’s no place to live. Humans like to have a go at wild animals.”

“Humans come down here?”

He shrugs. “You got your urban spelunkers, your homeless, your general riffraff...”

“Are they ever bitten?”

“Yeah, it happens.”

I can only imagine. “And what do you do with the survivors?”

“They’re pretty rare but we put them out of their misery.”

A cull of the bitten. No humans allowed. These Founders are no different than the Luparii. The officer pulls out a gun and begins to approach the Wilds. The wolves pull together, gnashing their teeth as their hackles rise. They are weak and can offer no real defense against these two perfect examples of health. Marrock draws his weapon.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Don’t get yourself worked up about it.”

“I won’t let you—”

“You don’t want to finish that sentence,” he warns. “These are tranq guns. It’s a chemical capture. Now stand back and mind yourselves.”

Although I’m still unsure, I do as I’m told. I can’t get a read on Amara. The animals don’t try to run. The two bigger males make an attempt to stand their ground. The guns go off in a hush, and true to Marrock’s word, only darts hit the targets. The wolves stagger and try to lunge at their assailants but it’s too late and they fall before they’re able to, one by one until there’s only a single wolf left standing. It’s a snarling female who keeps low to the ground. She manages to dodge one dart but is taken out by another, and although she resists the sedative for far longer than the other Wilds, her eyelids grow heavy and she drops to the ground. After a brief pause, Marrock and his counterpart holster their weapons.

“What will you do with them now?” Amara asks as Marrock hunkers down to take the pulse of one of the first wolves to have fallen, placing two fingers on the inner side of the thigh at the femoral artery.

“We’re sending them to a place where Wilds belong.”

We’re still cast in a ruddy glow from the road flares. Amara’s silhouette moves unnoticed among the unconscious wolves like a nomadic warrior assessing the aftermath of battle, even if she had no hand in this conquest. A sound rises from the dark. At first I fear a distant train, but it’s actually a low growl. I catch movement near the female. Before I can warn Amara, the last member of the small pack lunges from the shadows. The officer is quick to draw, but she turns on him.

“Stop!” she says, distracted at just the wrong moment.

The scent of blood travels to my nostrils as I run to her aid. I stop in my tracks as she picks up a whelp by the scruff of the neck. The little scrapper continues to yip and swipe its paws. It managed to bite Amara’s hand, and the blood now runs down her wrist as she holds the cub at arm’s length.

I can’t withhold my laughter. “You need help?”

She stares at me flatly, not finding humor in the situation. It sobers me quickly and I chide myself for not taking the required precautions. I need her here. I can’t do this alone. Whatever Marrock thinks, the Founders do have an agreement with us in place now. My success here could very well hinge on Amara and her knowledge. She knows so much more about this world than I do. She kneels to lay the whelp on its back in a submissive position. It continues to fight, so she wraps her hand under its muzzle to prevent another bite. Eventually the barks become whimpers and it stops struggling altogether. When she releases her grip it scampers off, tail tucked between its legs, and nuzzles against one member of the fallen pack.

“Obviously this isn’t a new problem,” I remark, marveling at how doglike they appear to be.

Marrock doesn’t pause in his work restraining the wolves with plastic wrist ties. “Nope.”

“Why bring us down here and show this if all you’re doing is shipping them off somewhere?”

“This is a hands-on learning experience.” He reaches out to hand me some ties.

With a shake of my head, I tell him, “I’m not here to do your dirty work.”

Marrock rises. “You are here to learn from us, though, aren’t you?”

“Not like this,” I insist. “I assume there’s a reason Esrin isn’t down here.”

“She doesn’t have the stomach for what goes on down here.”

“And you?” Amara asks. “What about your appetite for such things, Captain Marrock?”

He’s silent but his eyes never waver.

I try to redirect the conversation. “Where do you take them?”

“We round up the free-ranging Wilds for the safety of all parties involved,” he answers. “We’re early this season ’cause the Appalachian Territories just called a Coinneachadh.”

He pronounces the word COHN-nyuh-khuhgh. It sounds Scottish and unpronounceable to my tongue.

“A what?”

“It’s how the packs choose a new chieftain.”

I don’t have to ask what happened to their old one. It’s what happens to all pack leaders, eventually. A sense of dread washes over me. Werewolf packs operate on much simpler terms than human societies. Physical prowess means everything: life or death. Lately the latter has been foremost on my mind — when my time will come. Marrock leaves his officer with the Wilds and leads us back above ground the way we came. Aboveground the sky has opened up and cold rain pelts us on our path back to the car. We drive back to the apartment, the squeal of the windshield wipers against the windshield punctuating our silence. The streets are still alive in spite of the rain and late hour. New York City never slows down. Yellow cabs splash by as the bright lights of digital billboards reflect on the wet streets. My brain buzzes, both over-stimulated and completely exhausted all at once. The Founders might not be any better than what lies in wait for us on the other side of the ocean. Another tyranny imposing its laws and punishments, just like the Hounds only by a different name. It’s supposed to be better here. Isn’t that why they crossed the ocean in the first place?

Marrock pulls up to the curb in front of the majestic apartment complex. “Figured you’d be starving, so there’s a warm meal waiting for you upstairs. Hope you don’t mind takeout.” His parting instructions are terse. “We leave for Maine first thing tomorrow.”

The doorman hustles out to the curb under a wide umbrella and opens the passenger side door. Cold hits me as much as the shock of having to wake up in just a few short hours but we accept our fate and leave Marrock without another word. Inside the foyer. I shiver in my soaked clothes. We streak a wet path toward the elevator. Everything is suddenly moving so quickly. I shouldn’t complain. The sooner I’m done here, the sooner I can return to Paris. The elevator pings and the doors slide open. Lost in my own thoughts I turn without looking and run headlong into Esrin inside the car. She reaches up and pushes me back with her perfectly manicured fingertips — jewel-encrusted like her earrings.

“You really must brush up on your greetings, darling.”

With a smile I pull back before she can plant more kisses on my face. Amara remains stock-still and expressionless. I wish I had her poker face.

“How did you fare among the Wilds?” Esrin asks, raking her fingers down along the sleeve of my damp shirt. She takes my left hand in hers, folding it open and drawing it palm up to her face to inspect.

“Absolutely spotless,” she remarks as her thumb flicks against my ring finger. I process the words entirely too slowly, which produces a slow smile of approval from her. “There is no need to dirty one’s hands when others are eager to do so, now is there?”

Was this underground field trip a test? She holds me in her gaze as Amara waits by my side. I pull my hand out of Esrin’s and try to mimic Amara’s unreadable expression.

“Curious times, aren’t they?” Somehow I suspect she’s not addressing me anymore. “We learned long ago that the blade is just a tool that yields power to the hand.”

I try my best to withhold a grin. “Are you calling Marrock a tool?”

Her true age shows in her glossing over my immature comment. “There are many different hands that reach to claim our power, darling, but a sword is always a sword. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Esrin finally turns her full attention to Amara, who I feel she’s been addressing this whole time. The sound of rain carries toward us momentarily as someone comes through the lobby. Her eyes slide away from us toward the door.

“Our conversation will have to continue in the morning,” she says, gliding past us.

With a glance back over my shoulder, I see Marrock staring down Esrin as he stands in his uniform, somehow completely dry. Before I can say anything more, he and Esrin disappear into the night. I push the strange exchange out of my mind and we enter the elevator. Upstairs, the on-duty officer nods as we make our way into the apartment. He must have radioed down to Marrock to let him know about Esrin coming down to meet us. Once inside, the odor of blood instantly fills my senses. Amara goes into full predator mode, emitting a low growl as we head into the kitchen. There, spread out on the chrome countertop island, is a white-tailed deer, dead eyes staring lifelessly and tongue lolling out of its mouth. The human part of me is beyond disappointed, if not totally disturbed, by the sight.

“I thought he meant burgers or something,” I mutter.

“As did I,” Amara says, relieved as she slips out of her damp clothes to shift.

I’m actually starting to get used to the general comfort of werewolves with public nudity. Closing my eyes, I strip off the black popover which clings to me like a wet film. The fabric flops to the ground as I let the wolf in me rise up to gorge on the feast we’ve been presented with, no questions asked. I bury my human revulsion within the fur, embracing the wolf for what it is — a part of me that’s always been there. It’s engrained in my DNA to relish tearing through sinews, crunching on bones, gulping down raw flesh. I push my human thoughts away to digest it all: what I am, what I have to do to survive in this world. I join Amara in the feeding frenzy until I can swallow down no more. I stalk away, the pads of my paws turning to flesh, and shower off the evidence of this day, averting my eyes from the blood that swirls down the drain. When I’m done I towel off, unable to escape the scent of the perfumed soap bar meant to be a masculine musk. Reaching the bedroom, I take my phone from the charger where I left it hours ago and finally see a text from Madison: Everything’s fine. With a sigh of relief I fall into the embrace of much-needed sleep, comforted by the fact that at least she’s safe.