7. SEVEN NATION ARMY

 

In the morning I get ready to start a new day, for the first time somewhat hopeful that progress is being made here. The only hint we’ve been given is that we’re headed generally toward the state of Maine. That could mean anything, but Marrock was clear that it’s a place where the Wilds belong. Judging by their name and the conditions we found them living in last night, it’s a safe bet that we’re heading pretty far from humankind. Amara is waiting for me by the exit when I head downstairs, dressed casually in dark jeans and a cardigan that flows around her like a waterfall over a simple T-shirt. The elevator ride is deathly quiet. Neither of us knows what to expect. I stifle a yawn as we reach the lobby, groggy after too little sleep and too much meat. Marrock meets us wearing hunting gear: dark jeans, a red plaid jacket and boots. They may be arms dealers, but they’re hunters too, through and through. The Founders have made it clear that the bitten have no place in their world. I don’t imagine those who threaten the pack would fare any better.

He stands with a smirk that crinkles the skin around his light brown eyes. “How was supper?”

“How’d you get a deer into the middle of Manhattan, let alone up to the penthouse?”

He shrugs. “Money might not buy happiness, but it can get you just about whatever the hell else you want to make up for it.”

We step outside into the chill of spring air and streets still damp from rainfall. The sun is just starting to rise and light up the skyline, spreading shadows down the street and casting buildings in an orange glow. Morning traffic crawls by, bringing with it the blare of car horns and smell of diesel mixed with the smoky scent of food truck grills. Waiting for us curbside is another police escort motorcade. Marrock leads us to a black Cadillac XTS limo in the middle that looks like a futuristic version of the presidential state car. There are even two small flags mounted on the hood. Not stars and stripes, though. I hold out the purple fabric to get a better look at the logo. There’s a black silhouette of a double-headed wolf in the center encircled by what looks to be the eight phases of the moon. One of Esrin’s entourage stands by the back of the vehicle dressed like a Secret Service agent. He opens the door when Marrock approaches. I slide inside and find myself across from Esrin, who’s engrossed with her tablet. Her outfit looks to have been picked out of some kind of country couture catalogue: a cropped coat over a short, belted dress, tights and high-heeled ankle boots. Tiny white flowers embellish her loosely braided hair. Hardly suitable attire for traipsing through forests. At the end of the day, though, we’re all wolves. More of a shock to me is that all of her exposed skin is covered in an elaborate henna tattoo. The pattern appears to be of branches and leaves, but I also catch a glimpse of a wolf’s face hidden amidst the ochre forest. She smiles, enjoying being observed. Amara eases in beside me before Marrock steps into the limo and claims his place next to Esrin. The door slams shut, sealing the four of us in together for the long drive to Maine. The vehicle pulls into traffic while the Founders casually ignore us and avoid conversation, Esrin busily tapping the screen of her tablet while Marrock sits back and gazes out at rush hour traffic.

“So ... where are the Wilds you captured?” I ask.

Marrock thrusts a thumb back over his shoulder. I peer out the back window and see a truck with a man dressed in a park ranger’s uniform in the driver’s seat. There’s a windowless cap extension over the bed of the pickup and I imagine the captured Wilds are still doped up within its dark confines.

“Is that really necessary?”

“They’re called Wilds for a reason. Some of them are almost pure animal by the time we find them. Those ones back there ... they’d sooner kill us than join us.”

“What exactly are you going to do with them when we get to wherever we’re going?”

He purses his lips while giving a half-shrug. “Not a thing.”

Amara lets out a little noise of disbelief in spite of herself.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “You’re driving what ... five, six hours ... personally accompanying them just for some kind of catch-and-release program for stray werewolves?”

“Hardly,” Esrin interjects but stops short of explaining. She returns to her tablet.

I look to Marrock for more. Amara tenses almost imperceptibly when he reaches into his pants pocket. He pulls out a temporary tattoo transfer, the kind that I remember getting as a kid from mall vending machines. The tattoo is the same symbol as on the flags on the limo’s hood. I’m guessing it’s part of the propaganda machine of the Founders.

“The Wilds, they’re spread out over seven territories across Canada and the US,” he tells me, leaning forward to point out parts of the flag as he speaks. “The Founders manage them all, so included that’s eight packs in total.” He holds up the tattoo so I can see it clearly. “Like the eight phases of the moon that make up this circle.”

“And the two-headed wolf?”

“A united pack under two kinds of leadership. The Wilds are managed but they’re what you call sovereign ... for the most part.”

“Why would the Founders unify with the Wilds, though?”

“What part of the word ‘wild’ don’t you get?”

Esrin tsks loudly at his tone.

“We are all born with the propensity to be wild,” Amara adds. “It is our natural state.”

Her words bring Arden to mind. He’s always been resistant to urban dwelling, to the technologies and innovation that Roul brought to the pack. He’d much rather be free, out in the wild, away from the unpleasantries that come with living among humans. Rather than rebuke them, Marrock straightens up in response to the reproach of the two women.

“The Wilds, if left to their own devices, would run wild. They came here looking for total freedom from humans. That makes them more than just a pain in the ass for us.”

His argument so far is as sound as what Breber, the leader of the Hounds of God, once told me.

“I’ve heard a similar line before. From the ones you ran from.”

“I get that it may sound the same, but we’re nothing like the Hounds.”

“Keep talking, Marrock,” I say. “I’m listening really hard for the differences.”

He lets out a long sigh while staring at me evenly. “That truck back there? It belongs to the Wolf Conservation Foundation. That would be the Founders for short. It’s funded by Phenix Industries.”

Esrin chimes in. “The seven territories are actually wildlife sanctuaries that we’ve established to protect the Wilds. They self-govern, don’t trifle with humans, and so everybody gets what they want out of the arrangement. It’s also where your meal of venison came from.”

“Thank you for that,” Amara says. “It was wonderful.”

Esrin wrinkles her nose. “You have Captain Marrock to thank. Whatever you may think, the Old World traditions aren’t who we are. We aren’t the Hounds, nor are we in any way like the Wilds.”

It seems she holds a certain level of disdain not just for what was left behind but also for what they brought with them. Their inability to tame these Wilds appears to be a sticking point.

“And what is your return from this arrangement?” Amara asks. “Surely the refuge you provide comes at a price.”

“All things do,” Marrock acknowledges with a grin.

“Meaning?” I ask.

“In return for their safety, they follow the rules. There are two of them. Cardinal ones, if you will. One: keep away from humans. Two: take in the free-ranging Wilds we pick up.”

“That’s it?” I press, wondering what the Founders really gain.

“The Wolf Conservation Foundation provides an excellent tax deduction,” Esrin remarks, our eyes meeting briefly over the tablet. I can’t tell if she’s joking. “Captain Marrock can speak more to their value as ... swords.”

Suddenly I get a clearer picture about what happens to unwelcome guests. The Wilds are weapons to be used against their common enemies.

“And what if the Wilds you find don’t want to be a part of this arrangement?”

“What do you think?” Marrock asks.

As I consider my next words, Amara jumps in for me. “To live and roam free should not come with a price.”

“We exist in a world where we must choose either to prey or be preyed upon,” Esrin replies.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I note.

“You won’t like the answer,” Marrock adds. “It’s always been a dog-eat-dog world.”

So it’s live free or die then. Amara fidgets in her seat next to me and I’m glad she’s here instead of Arden. Words have always been a nuisance to him. I can only imagine how frustrated he would be with this circuitous conversation, when I’m about at my wit’s end.

“I want you to say what happens to the Wilds who try to live outside your control.”

“Dharma,” Esrin answers. “That without which nothing can stand.”

Her response produces a blank stare from me.

“It is the law that upholds the order of the universe.”

“What’s the practical application of that here on Earth?”

Marrock answers, “Mortal combat.”

“Against whom?”

“Other Wilds.”

I open my mouth to protest.

“Dharma is a versatile notion,” Esrin cuts me off. “It also represents an individual’s duty to fulfill an obligation.”

“The Wilds want one thing — freedom to be who they are — and the Founders provide that,” Marrock adds. “The free-ranging ones wander over here from the Old World or slipped through the cracks centuries ago. Most of them are grateful for what they’re given. You saw the state of the ones we picked up. They’re weak, both physically and mentally. The ones who don’t fall in line take the fate that’s gunning for them anyway.”

I’m silent for a while. It’s hard to picture a group of Wilds lined up to kill the ones who want to leave. Is it my humanness getting in the way of understanding their social dynamics? Or is deadly force an unfortunate reality of uniting packs?

“So just how many casualties are there every year?” I take on a matter-of-fact tone. Better to keep the conversation going than to show my disappointment.

“What do we look like, the Census Bureau?”

His flippant attitude pushes me over the edge. “So, you place wagers on human casualties of war, kill off the bitten without any opportunity for rehabilitation and literally throw your own kind to the wolves. Honestly? With friends like the Founders, who needs enemies?”

“So you’re being honest now?”

“One of us has to start,” I grumble.

Marrock purses his lips to withhold a snarl. “You know what humans are good for? Meddling where they don’t belong. The bitten humans, the Wilds who don’t conform, they’re no different than runts in a litter. To us, they’re small and weak and face serious odds against survival. If we put in the resources needed to nurture that one soul on the off chance that it might survive, we steal from the mouths of the strong. And for what? A lifetime of struggle. But humans come along cheering for the underdog with misguided ideas about fairness. What’s fair about dragging out the suffering?”

When he puts their rationale in these stark terms it gives me pause, but there’s still the obvious discrepancy. “You’re not exactly deprived of resources.”

“That’s beside the point,” he argues. “There’s no room for the weak. The ‘bitten’, as you call them, are humans. They don’t want to be one of us to begin with. As for the Wilds, they’re just unpredictable. We need to keep our numbers strong and loyal. That’s how you keep order.”

“How many of you are there?”

“A small army,” Esrin answers absently.

Marrock shoots her a loaded look she doesn’t see.

“What’s to stop a pack from calling all the Wilds to rebel against you?” I ask.

“Why ever would they?” Esrin questions. “We protect them and satisfy all their needs. But we are no fools. If a kingdom is divided against itself, it cannot stand.”

The seven territories means less chance of a successful uprising. Everything they did to set up this unification of packs was well-orchestrated, right down to population control. Amara and her sword all those centuries ago inspired change beyond what anyone would have anticipated. Obviously, Esrin enjoys the power bestowed upon her, but her role among the Founders means that she’s constantly on the lookout for new acquisitions. I worry that I’ve become a person of interest.

“You said the Wilds of this territory are replacing their leader,” I note. “I’m assuming he or she died? How?”

“Life as a Wild isn’t exactly foolproof,” Marrock says. “The conservation areas were set up to protect them, but humans like to have a go at wild animals.”

Silence falls over us for a long while after that. Esrin returns to her tablet while Marrock sits with palms on his knees in stoic silence like some kind of monk. The time allows me to absorb what I’ve just learned. The only indication of time passing are the highway signs that mark the miles to the cities and landmarks that we pass. Eventually Esrin stows away her device into a stylish case and I straighten up, anticipating more conversation. Instead she stretches out on the back seat with her calves across Marrock’s lap and dozes off. The captain doesn’t even budge a muscle. I’m reminded of one of those animal odd couples videos, like when a gorilla puts up with the antics of a kitten.

I have to ask, “What’s your story, Marrock?”

His eyes wander over to me but he remains unmoved.

“How do you fit in here?”

Shifting the angle of his face to gaze out his tinted window, he answers, “That’s not part of the contract.”

“Come on, it’s going to be a long drive.”

He returns his attention to me, giving me the once-over with his eyes.

I hold my hands out in front of me. “Nothing up my sleeves, I swear.”

In spite of himself, he grins but says nothing more.

“Tell us about this Coinneachadh,” Amara demands. Although her pronunciation of the word isn’t spot on, I’m impressed nonetheless.

“What do you want to know?”

It’s like pulling teeth. Before I can voice my frustration, Amara says, “Everything.”

“It doesn’t happen often here, losing a chieftain. Not like in the Old World. When it does, it’s a big deal. We like to make a show of it. All seven territories are invited to the Coinneachadh. In human terms,” he says the words in a way that makes it clear they’re for my benefit alone, “it’s like a gathering of clans except with less bagpipes and kilts, more feats of strength and combat. Whoever comes out on top earns the role of chieftain.”

Seven groups of werewolves hopped up on adrenalin. Considering the territorial nature of packs, I can only imagine how tense a scenario this Coinneachadh is going to be. Even if this so-called gathering were taking place on a wildlife preserve in the middle of nowhere, it would be difficult to hide from the outside world. The human world. Werewolves would probably be hunted to extinction if we were found out.

“How do you keep it all under wraps?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“I’d like to know what to expect when we step out of this limo.”

Esrin opens one eye. “Lunch first, darling. For now, beauty sleep.” She wiggles in her seat to get comfortable, her sharp-heeled boots digging into Marrock’s thighs. “Shh,” she says and we all comply.

We eventually break for lunch in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It’s a postcard-perfect maritime city. Exiting off the I-95, we drive past the outskirts and into the small downtown core, comprised of several strips of historic commercial buildings faced with red brick and cast iron. Old-fashioned lampposts line the brick walkways and it has all the historical charm of a colonial town. We park at the market square, where a church with a white spire dominates the eastern side.

One of Esrin’s bodyguards disappears into a seafood restaurant. A metal fish hangs over the doorway with its mouth pulled into a gaping frown. Beyond the large glass windows and Venetian blinds I can make out white Formica tables and black pleather chairs. Our security detail draws much attention from the passersby, who frown as they’re redirected to the other side of the street. Eventually, one of the guards steps outside and radios the all-clear. We’re ushered from the limo and escorted inside. A reserved dining room has been set up just for us. The decor is modern kitsch with outdoor string lighting hung across the ceiling, and seafood prints and mounted trophy fish on the walls. The coasters on the tables have a line drawing of oysters and the words ‘Aww ... shucks.’ I try not to groan.

We’re the only customers here but I doubt it’s a coincidence. A plump blonde waitress appears holding a raw bar sampler of oysters, shrimp cocktail, snow crab claws, littleneck clams, scallops, ceviche, crab salad, chilled mussels and a calamari salad. The platter fills the table. As the others dig in, I swallow down my hesitation in slimy gulps of shellfish in order to not stand out. The Founders may not be exactly like the Hounds but they’re not completely unlike them either. Somehow I know my image as a leader is tied together with their respect, and I often get the sense that they’re just waiting for me to trip up. Marrock watches me from across the table, and when our eyes meet he doesn’t look away.

“Besides control of the pack, what else has Rodolfus left you. A trust fund? Or do you have a role at Fenrir Pharmaceuticals?”

“I...” What is my role? Up until November of last year I was just a run-of-the-mill foreign exchange student — a pretense I still have to maintain whenever I talk to my parents. Since then I’ve been bitten, shot at, and now have become the majority shareholder of a multi-billion-dollar pharmaceutical company. Saying the words out loud gives me a rush. “I’m a drug dealer.”

I smile.

He chuckles. “You’re a regular Heisenberg, hey?”

“Not exactly.”

I reach into my inner jacket and slowly withdraw a familiar yellow tube that I show without handing it over.

“Antivenin for bitten humans,” I explain. “One of our more recent developments.”

“Very clever,” Esrin notes, curiosity piqued.

“Only two companies in the world produce it,” I reply, trying not to sound like a salesman. “Boguet Biotechnology developed it originally. Fenrir Pharmaceuticals poached a geneticist from them to replicate it.”

The Founders are unmoved. It hasn’t been lost on me, though, that Fenrir could benefit from an actual business transaction with Phenix if we survive, and I have to bank on that.

“You said the bitten who survive are ... eliminated. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Doesn’t it? By the time we find them, it’s too late. All the EpiPens in the world won’t save them from knowing what they’ve become. They can’t just breathe a sigh of relief and re-enter human society. Too risky.”

While I could try to make a case for the bitten — technically I am one of them — I don’t. As much as I hate the application, I understand the reason for their heavy-handedness. My feelings for Madison aside, the Hounds of God have proven themselves a formidable enemy. I’ve only just begun to see what they’re capable of doing. I can’t very well speak in favor of those I hope the Founders will come to see as a very real, far-reaching threat. The fact that my venom can heal the bitten, turn them into full-fledged wolves, seems too dangerous to share with them right now for precisely the same reasons.

“What else have you got in your bag of tricks?”

I shrug, thinking back to my crash course on Fenrir Pharmaceuticals. “We offer technologies of hope.”

“That’s some kind of airy-fairy corporate babble by Rodolfus de Aquila.”

“Do not underestimate his influence,” Amara says. “Humans have always far outnumbered our kind. He found that working with them was more prudent than working against them, saving them more productive than killing them. His legacy outlives him.”

“You paint a different picture of him than I knew.”

Whatever Roul was or wasn’t before I met him doesn’t seem particularly relevant. The Founders clearly understand the need to integrate with human society, just as Roul did. Instead of promoting trust and goodwill, Phenix Industries strives to succeed through the proliferation of weapons, warfare and general dysfunction among the human population. Control is their currency.

“Perhaps your advanced age is affecting your memory,” Amara snipes.

My eyes widen for just a second before I regain my composure. “What you knew about him was exaggerated rumor. That’s how legends are made.”

Marrock noisily slurps back an oyster, letting the comment slide like the disgusting mollusk down his throat. The emotional spectrum of werewolves is pretty limited, if highly polarized.

“You know,” he starts, wiping his lips with a thumb, “you’re not the first ones to show up here asking for help and bringing the Old World problems with you.”

“What makes us different from the others who came before us?”

“None of them were the progeny of Rodolfus de Aquila.”

“And the others? Where are they now?”

Esrin dips a fork into the ceviche. “Those who can read the circumstances of their defeat are welcome to leave.”

“What exactly does that mean?” I ask, annoyed by her constant riddles.

“What do you do when someone crosses into your turf and you have to pull back the welcome mat?”

It hasn’t happened. Not yet. I’ve only been thinking about bringing the packs together. I haven’t considered them as outside threats, just potential allies. Marrock stares at me, waiting for an answer.

Amara huffs. “As with any pack, we remove the problem from the equation.”

Bringing her with me was probably the smartest thing I’ve done so far in my new role. A pack leader is only as good as the ones who support him. At least in my case. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it wasn’t for the training and backing of Arden and Amara. All the same, there are gaps in my knowledge that a tank could drive through. Marrock grins as though we’re a source of amusement to him.

“Exactly,” he says. “The way it should be. We have them deported.”

“Rightfully so,” Esrin remarks as she finishes the last of the calamari without acknowledging the near upset at the table.

She stands and unceremoniously announces that it’s time to leave. We avoid further conversation for the remaining hour of the drive, neither Amara nor I pleased with the mirror that Marrock held up to our faces. We pass Bradbury Mountain State Park and eventually turn onto a gravel road until we reach a rusted metal gate with a large sign that reads:

PRIVATE PROPERTY

NO HUNTING

NO TRESPASSING

ALL OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW

We step our of the limo and find ourselves in a mixed-growth forest filled mostly with white birches that are almost luminous in the spring sunshine. Dead foliage from the fall covers the ground and there’s no path to speak of as we make our way deep into the woods. The earth beneath my feet is moist, the scent rising as we move deeper into the forest. My mind plays over our conversation about outsiders and I suddenly worry that this might be our ticket to deportation. My ears pick up the rush of water over stones in a nearby stream and something else — a rustle in the bushes. The animal in me bristles. Amara is also on guard, crowding in close to me. Too late now. I internally kick myself for allowing us to be put in such a defenseless position. We hear the Wilds before we see them, circling in on us with low growls. They’re young, lean wolves, and each of them appears hungry for a fight. What they lack in age and physical prowess they make up for in sheer number. I count at least two dozen of them with dirt-covered fur and an overwhelming pungent scent of musk. They come at us from five points, like a star. Amara’s back presses rigidly against mine as we’re surrounded. Marrock turns to face us, grinning.

“Just so you know, the Wilds wouldn’t know a welcome mat to look at one.”