9. OATS IN THE WATER

 

I picture a small log cabin as we make the trek out of the meadow. Something quaint and unassuming. The Founders are neither of these things so I don’t know why I’m surprised to find what is, technically speaking, a log cabin. On a cleared incline set against the backdrop of a vast blue sky and overlooking the forest stands a two-story monstrosity that has no place in nature. Floor-to-cathedral ceiling windows cover the front, meeting in triangular peaks high above us. The main level is built of stacked stone. We walk up a path to the grandiose entryway, where varnished logs serve as natural columns that rise up from stone bases. Behind us is a magnificent view of mountains dusted with remnants of snow far in the distance. Marrock attempts to shoo the whelp away from the door, but the little guy is persistent and yips at being separated from Amara. Once the door is opened for us we pile inside, but one of the bodyguards picks up the pup by the scruff of the neck, tosses him out the front door and shuts him outside. Amara watches the whole scenario unfold but with detached interest, and she doesn’t object. I don’t see what harm it could do to allow the whelp indoors but nobody seems interested in arguing that point.

The interior of the cabin has a modern rustic feel. A staircase that looks like it was carved right out of the trunk of a massive tree rises from the middle of the foyer. The ceilings and flooring are all of polished, exposed wood. The great room breaks the living area off into two separate wings with the sleeping quarters upstairs. We’re led to the right, where we’re shown to our rooms. There’s not much in terms of furniture, and the sheer size of the room only highlights how empty it is. I set down my overnight bag and wander around. Walking down the circular staircase gives me the sense that I’m descending from an elaborate treehouse, sort of like the elven kingdom of Lothlórien from The Lord of the Rings. A commotion catches my attention at the bottom. Against my better instinct, I follow the sounds of snarling wolves to the great room, the signature space of a McMansion, which is what this cabin really is. One wall is occupied almost entirely by a stone fireplace large enough to walk into. Laid in front of it is a genuine bearskin rug, where Esrin’s two wolves are wrestling while she lounges watching on a plush sofa.

“What’s going on?” I ask, venturing into the room with caution.

Without looking at me, she gestures toward them with a flourish of her wrist. “Perhaps you can show them how it’s done.”

I stop in my tracks. “And what’s that?”

One of the wolves shifts, pushing the other away with his human hands. He’s disheveled but otherwise unharmed from the play fighting.

“What’d Marrock say?” he starts. “Para bellum?”

The sound of the ancient words coming from his irreverent mouth twigs something in me, and all of a sudden a little sparring doesn’t seem like a bad idea. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

He half grins, but a twitch shows an underlying unease. “Take it easy, dude. We’re just having a bit of fun.”

“The ritual of para bellum isn’t some child’s game. Do you even know what it means? It’s ‘Si vis pacem, para bellum.’ If you want peace, prepare for war.”

He glances away, ashamed of his ignorance, which is exactly what I wanted. “You sound like Marrock,” he growls lowly.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” Aggravation has built on my nerves for the past week, and I can’t hide my annoyance. “I don’t know how old you are, but you behave like spoiled rich kids who forgot where they came from.”

He turns to argue but Esrin commands something in a language that sounds distinctly Eastern European, “Yeter artık!”

The bodyguard lowers his head, completely defeated, and turns away to get dressed. The other lounges on the rug like a pet dog. There’s an awkward silence that hangs in the air for a long while. I think that I should leave, and when I finally make the move Esrin speaks.

“You don’t approve of our ways,” she observes. “We were part of the old ways once. We left the Old World to pursue our ambitions without interference.”

“I was letting off steam. I didn’t mean ... to offend. It’s just that you’re all—” I pause at the irony of what I’m about to say before continuing, “—so young.”

“We wasted our youth being shackled to the Old World. We had nothing to lose and everything to gain. If we appear immature in our ways, think of it as our second childhood.”

“Is that why I haven’t seen any older alphas here? I mean, besides Marrock.”

The bodyguard scoffs. Esrin tsks to silence him but it does nothing to wipe the bemused grin off his face.

“Captain Marrock is an exception.”

“So he’s the only older alpha? What about the Wilds and their leaders?”

The Wilds that I’ve seen here seem fairly young, all of them around my age or maybe just a few years older. Of course, werewolves age differently. How differently is something I’ve yet to determine.

“Darling, this is the New World. We have new rules, new traditions. There is no place here for relics of the past.”

“I think you’ve had enough fun here,” Marrock’s voice resonates throughout the room from where he stands at the wide threshold.

Esrin rises from the sofa. “You’ll join us for supper at eight,” she says not so much an invitation as an assumption. As she saunters away the clatter of her heels announces her exit. Her mismatched bodyguards trail behind, not even glancing once at Marrock. Even in this vast cabin the captain manages to keep his finger on the pulse everything going on. He appears about to leave with them but pauses.

“You know you’ve taken the literal interpretation of that expression. In the days when it was spoken, ‘si vis pacem, para bellum’ meant peace through strength. The stronger the individual, the stronger the pack, the less likely your enemies will come at you.”

He stalks away, leaving me to consider just how much he heard of the conversation and why he didn’t intervene sooner. Where Marrock is concerned I’m starting to feel the closer I hold my cards to my chest, the more he’s going to call my bluff. I bide my time until Amara and I head together to the large dining room. Like the rest of the cabin, the rusticity of the exposed, varnished wood is offset by the modern furnishings. It’s five past eight and the Founders are already seated in high-backed upholstered chairs on opposite sides of a long glass-top table. I take my place across from Amara, the bodyguards strategically positioning themselves behind us. I stare down at a pleasant surprise: a hamburger and fries.

“Medium rare,” Marrock says observing me for a few seconds. “Technically that’s safe for human consumption.”

I let the comment pass, increasingly unsettled about where this conversation is headed.

“We mean no offense,” Esrin says. “You are simply a curiosity to us.”

“You told me this wasn’t a Barnum & Bailey kind of circus,” I answer. “I hope I’m not here as part of the freak show.”

My frankness has the effect of silencing the Founders for just a moment before amused expressions dawn on their faces. I jump at the opportunity to dig into my burger, hoping to avoid further conversation on the matter. Obviously my human qualities are kind of novelty to them, but that’s to be expected. This new role of mine has changed everything. Truth is, my metamorphosis started before I was bitten, when I met Madison, but the insecurities I have about my identity are now mixed up in this other world.

“You’re a curiosity,” Marrock says. “Thing I’m still curious about is why the Luparii were aiming for you when Roul died.”

Tiredly I rub at the tattoo on my neck, trying to feel for the scar line where the bullet nicked me. “I have something that they want,” I reply, purposefully vague.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

My uneasiness about over-sharing is directly related to instincts of self-preservation and not wanting to put a price on my own head. The Luparii want me dead for reasons that go beyond a power struggle. Under normal circumstances my ability to ‘update’ the bitten, to turn them into full-fledged werewolves, would be a speed bump in their plans to wipe out the entire species. The effects of my venom are permanent and can’t be undone by Wolf’s Bane. If Fenrir Pharmaceuticals manages to synthesize an inoculation against the cure then the werewolf hunters will have to resort to lethal force to accomplish what they want — something that will prove much more difficult to hide from public view. Besides, as Trajan puts it, in terms of scientific discovery this outcome of my hybrid DNA could be just the tip of the iceberg.

I turn Marrock’s earlier words back on him. “That’s not part of the deal.”

“Rodolfus died protecting your secret,” he presses. “I want to know what we might be getting into.”

An uncontrolled twitch of my left eye gives away a sore spot in our dialogue.

“They tried to kill the prince and made a king instead,” Esrin muses.

I remain silent.

Marrock sits back, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame of the high-backed chair. “In the old days the Luparii were a wolf-catcher society meant to keep our numbers in check. They took out the lone wolves, the weak from packs that grew too large. You’re neither of those. Which means you must be making trouble in another way.” He cuts straight to the heart of the matter. “Why didn’t they just cure you? Why use real bullets?”

Amara exchanges a look with me that I can’t read. I push my plate away and place both hands on the table.

“Because they can’t cure me.”

There’s a thoughtful silence for a second while Esrin chews on a fry. I wait, motionless. Finally Esrin leans forward and simply says, “Prove it.”

I suppose that was to be expected. “Wolf’s Bane is based on my DNA. It doesn’t work on me.”

“My mate,” Amara starts, flatly, “was only the first among us to suffer the fate of Wolf’s Bane. He was certainly not the last.”

“Look, we don’t doubt there’s trouble brewing in the Old World,” Marrock says. “It was only a matter of time before it all came to a head again. We just question this ... cure. Sounds like scare tactics. Where’s the evidence?”

“There is, of course, a way to prove it,” Amara tells them evenly, like a dare.

A number of things happen within the span of a few shorts seconds. Amara rises suddenly, setting the bodyguards on alert. My pulse quickens as she withdraws a gun from beneath her loose sweater. The bodyguards move to draw their own weapons but Marrock raises a hand to stop any action on either side. I recognize the gun right away as one of the Luparii bio-weapons. In Quedlinburg, when everything went catastrophically wrong, I had fired that weapon off at troublemaker Daniel without so much as flinching. I don’t know how Amara smuggled it aboard our flight.

Marrock mimics my earlier move, laying his hands flat on the table top, one on each side of his place setting as the bodyguards stand down. “What do you propose to do with that?”

“This weapon,” she explains slowly, “was designed by the Luparii to administer Wolf’s Bane. It is loaded with two cartridges. It would stand to reason that applying one to Connor would not satisfy your disbelief since it would have no effect and you would in turn believe the cartridges to be a placebo.” She pauses to look each of them in the eye before continuing. “We would have to test the second against a willing participant.”

“Bize yavru getirin,” Esrin commands without hesitation.

The bodyguard closest to the exit nods succinctly before disappearing from the room. Are they really so eager to sacrifice one of their own? Or does she think she’s calling our bluff and that Wolf’s Bane is really a hoax? Moments later I hear whimpers as the bodyguard returns. I know before I see them that he’s brought the young whelp from outside. Marrock gnashes his teeth audibly as he flashes Esrin a glare.

Amara holsters the weapon beneath her cardigan ahead of me. “No,” she commands. “I said willing.”

Esrin gestures to the pup like a model showcasing a new car. “One so young would suffer no loss. The memory simply isn’t well-formed at such an age. Entering human society wouldn’t be a problem.”

My brain tries to access some of the bits of science that I had to take a crash course in these past few months. “There’s a reason you didn’t shoot the pup with your tranq gun the other night, isn’t there, Marrock? The effectiveness depends on being able to estimate a target’s weight. The dose here would probably kill the pup.”

A long silence punctuates my little speech, after which Marrock thrums his fingers across the glass top. “Well played,” he admits.

“Please, sit,” Esrin says to Amara. “We aren’t suggesting there has been any specific deceit. We merely mean to illustrate our goodwill in the trust we’ve placed in you.”

That’s a lot of bull if I ever heard it, but I nod for Amara to take her seat again.

“The Wilds are having a party tonight ahead of the Coinneachadh,” Marrock informs us. “You’re welcome to go for a run but I’d stay out of the meadow until morning if you don’t want any trouble.” He stands to leave. “We’ll figure out another test for your Wolf’s Bane.”

He makes his exit and Esrin isn’t long to follow, taking her entourage with her as always. When I’m reasonably assured they’re out of earshot, I ask, “Any other secrets you want to let me in on?”

Amara doesn’t answer, as if it was a rhetorical question.

“Just — no more surprises, alright? You’ve got to fill me in before you pull stuff like this.”

She nods then makes her way out of the room. I don’t think it’s been her intention to catch me unawares. Sitting back in my chair at the long dining room table, half eaten burger in front of me, I consider my next move. To my right is an open fireplace on a square stone base. Ahead of me, the floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a moonlit forest. A mounted stag’s head on the oak wall stares out over the room with glassy, lifeless eyes. A childhood memory stirs within me from a field trip to the American Museum of Natural History. The terror of standing in the Hall of Small Mammals. To me it was a graveyard of dead animals. Now, I realize at least those creatures have that — a memorial that they existed, had lives, once roamed the Earth. There won’t be anything like that for us if this war goes the wrong way. Below the disembodied head is the statue of a wolf prowling around the granite from which it was carved. It brings to mind my conversation days earlier with Esrin. Not everything is set in stone. Some things can be rewritten.