A. ALTRUISM

 

Altruism: noun. Behavior by an animal that is not beneficial to or may be harmful to itself but that benefits others of its species.

 

I’m bored out of my mind. It’s the end of another lame-ass business day. I peel the visitor pass sticker off my sweater and stack the self-expiring tag on top of the others on the desk. I stopped counting them after the first thirty days of being trapped inside the Fenrir Pharmaceuticals compound in Frankfurt. However long I’ve been here, it amounts to about an inch thick in paper.

We’ve been in lockdown since Aquila was gunned down in front of his home in Paris. The weeks that followed were filled with tight-lipped secrecy. I didn’t really expect to be here for more than a few days, let alone this many months. Aquila needed answers after what went down in Quedlinburg, and I got suckered into the part of lab rat. Connor’s accidental bite was a kind of software update of my genetic marker, according to Trajan. It turned me from a half-monster she-beast to a full-fledged wolf, just like the born. After cloning the cure and repeated testing on me, Trajan proved the new me is here to stay permanently. I’m no science geek, but there’s some breakthrough in the making here.

I would have jet after hearing the lab results, but nobody is getting in or out of here right now. So I’m stuck filling in the time rearranging playlists on my phone and re-reading Scott Pilgrim’s Finest Hour until the pages start falling out. Even looking up new, random words has sort of lost its charm a little. Too much of a good thing. There was a time when I wanted to reset my life to factory default. For now I’m just staring down a sad emoticon on a blue screen of death, waiting for this one — whatever it winds up being — to boot up again.

I have my feet up on the bamboo desk in Trajan’s office, not exactly snooping since he has literally no life of his own, but not totally minding my own business either. I never even knew his last name — Aiolfi — until we got here. Of course, that’s probably just as bogus as his first name, the one he took on when he left his life behind to become a lab experiment for Henri Boguet. I guess becoming a shifter is a small price to pay to escape terminal illness, even if, like all mad scientists, Boguet’s research wound up in the realm of crazy town.

A paperweight sits on his desk without a single scrap of paper. It’s one of those 3D laser-engraved crystal cubes, only this one just has a weird glob with the label ‘Xp21.2’ etched under it. I recognize the engraving as a DNA molecule from the crash course Trajan gave me what seems like forever ago.

I pick up the block and hold it up to the light just as Trajan finally shows up. His stocky and muscular frame reminds me of Bruce Banner in the moments before he goes completely Hulk — just shy of the green skin and smashiness. He snatches the crystal from my hand and places it back on his desk.

“They’re supposed to be filled with flowers or butterflies or other dead things, you know,” I tell him.

“’Cause I look like that kind of guy,” he says, giving me a funny look.

“When exactly did you become such a lab geek anyway?”

He shrugs. “I guess you could say it was forced on me.”

“The ’rents pressured you into a white coat?”

“Not exactly.”

My phone buzzes, breaking my interrogation. It’s a text from Connor: I <3 NY. We weren’t sure about the Luparii going NSA on our texts, so he promised to let me know when he landed in a way that wouldn’t tip them off.

“Anyway, looks like you made bail,” Trajan says.

“Excuse me?”

“Arden’s downstairs waiting for us.”

“Um, isn’t he out saving all of werewolf kind?”

“Connor and I got him to drop by with a special delivery. Figured while he was here, it’d be your chance to bounce.”

“Way to be mysterious.”

He just grins. “C’mon, I thought you were dying to get out of here.”

“Damn straight I am!”

I jump up and grab my rucksack from the couch that’s been like a pathetic second home to me. Trajan leads me to the elevator, which we ride down together to the bright atrium. An awkward silence sucks the excitement out of everything. This could be the last time we see each other.

“So, thanks for playing Catan and whatever,” I say as we step out.

He just shrugs again in response. The open space of the atrium is ringed by offices that rise up for about ten levels before hitting a glass ceiling. Murals and trees simulate a natural outdoorsy environment. On the days that I had full-on cabin fever I’d come down here and pretend I was in a park. There’s even a wildlife soundtrack piping in through hidden speakers.

Arden waits for us at the security desk. He’s wearing a black leather motorcycle race suit with white artwork details along the chest and arms that remind me of Māori tā moko tribal tattoos. Since I saw him last he’s cut his hair into a short fade and his face is now covered in thick stubble, which makes him look more badass than usual. As we approach, Trajan whistles a bird call. Arden stares in silence.

“You’re supposed to whistle back,” he says but Arden doesn’t. “You know, to prevent friendly fire. Like from snipers.”

Still nothing. It’s obvious that this is only going to get more awkward.

“This isn’t The Hunger Games, little mockingjay,” I cut in so he’s not left hanging.

“Too soon?” he mutters quietly to me, but I’m done with social charity work.

Arden’s holding a helmet in one hand and a small parcel in the other, stamped with a biohazard symbol.

“What’s in there? Miniature weapons of mass destruction?” I ask.

“I’m hoping I can make it the exact opposite,” Trajan answers, cutting by me.

“Mysteriouser and mysteriouser.”

He tries to fist bump Arden, again with no response, so he flicks out his fingers with an explosion sound effect instead. Arden is all business. He hands Trajan the package and slips one arm out of his backpack, retrieving a spare helmet that he shoves at me. Trajan punches me in the arm, and it hurts like hell.

“Ow! The hell’s wrong with you?”

I try to punch him back but his bicep is all muscle and it probably hurts my hand more than his arm.

He laughs. “Later, drama queen.”

Right. He’s just being a guy, incapable of a normal goodbye.

“Whatever, lab geek,” I say, trying to pretend this might not be the last time we see each other. “Don’t forget to save the world while I’m gone. No pressure.”

My sarcasm fails to elicit anything more than a little smile. Maybe because of how much truth there is in the words. His work might be the only way out for the true-born werewolves. They need to figure out some kind of kick-ass defense against Boguet’s bio-weapons now that they’re in the hands of the Luparii werewolf hunters.

“Are you ready?” Arden asks, killing any sentimentality I might have been feeling at the moment.

“Where exactly are we going?”

“I’m putting you on a plane to Paris.”

He walks toward the exit, obviously expecting me to follow.

“Alone?” I ask. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

He stops and turns to look me in the eyes. I expect him to bark some kind of wolfy aggression but I just get a tired sigh. Something’s up with him. I can’t exactly pinpoint it, but he’s definitely less angsty than usual. Almost empathetic.

“No.”

I put my free hand on my hip.

“I still have work to do,” he says.

“What am I supposed to do in Paris?” As I take a forceful few steps to bridge the gap between us he’s anything but intimidated. “I’ve been sitting around doing absolutely nothing since I got here, and I’m not about to do the same now that I’ve got my freedom.”

“You’re going there,” he says, “to stay out of harm’s way.”

Like it’s as easy as breathing. He turns and walks out. This time I follow. His Ducati motorcycle is parked right outside the sliding glass doors. The fresh air is a shock to me. I’ve been cooped up for so long that the smell of spring hits me square in the face and brings up a random memory of rolling down a hill for fun as a kid in a park somewhere near a Canadian Forces Base in Ontario. In my memory, the incline seemed super steep to five-year-old me, and now the thrill of tumbling is wrapped up in the scent of dirt and grass. The grass stains were marks of bravery. There’s nothing brave about running away to Paris.

Besides, I will seriously lose it if I have to wait out the Luparii, hiding out in confined quarters, for even a minute more. Obviously the pack doesn’t view me as totally on the up-and-up after my involvement with the Hounds, but there’s got to be a better way to kill time and help Connor out. I need to think of a way out of this banishment to Paris. Talk about First World Problems.

The motorcycle revs. I have to make my stand now.

“Not happening,” I say loudly. “I’m not going into more hiding. You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming through airport security. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than talk your way out of an AMBER Alert.”

Arden simply looks over at me. Maybe he’ll call my bluff, maybe he won’t. I start channeling my inner child for a full-out temper tantrum just in case. He lets out a long sigh, like any frustrated parent.

“You’re not hiding. You’re coming with me,” he says sternly, adding, “to finish what needs to be done.”

I step forward. “This isn’t a trick?”

He eyes me. “You have my word.”

If anyone else said that, I’d roll my eyes. From him it sounds totally legit. I slip on the helmet and slide in behind Arden, who guns the engine as if even a second’s delay would kill us. Maybe it would.

One last question lingers on my mind, but I was too afraid to ask: What needs to be done?