by Jess Haines
There was an understandably long pause. I bit my lower lip to keep from saying anything until he answered me.
“That depends. Did you sign a contract with someone else?” His voice was deceptively mild; I was sure there was a great deal of emotion underlying the statement, no matter how calm he sounded right now.
“No.”
“Then it means nothing. You are still wholly mine.”
I had to fight back a sudden, violent shudder at that statement. It took a silent count to ten before I could continue.
“So that means if I become Were, everything that’s mine stays mine?”
“Yes. When you die, your belongings will be turned over to me to manage as your estate. Turning Were does not change that clause, though it would throw a great number of things into question and might involve a lengthier, more expensive probate process. However, that shouldn’t happen unless you sign another contract. If you are considering it, I would advise against doing so. The legal liability alone—”
“I haven’t, and I won’t,” I said, voice harsh, breaking with the strain. “Don’t assume anything here, Royce. It’s not what you think.”
He quieted, considering my words. I knew the moment he must have realized what I meant. His anger was immediate and intense. “Who is responsible for this? Have you reported them to the authorities yet?”
“I haven’t, and I’m not sure I will.”
“If it was Chaz, I can understand your reluctance. However, consider the implications of failing to uphold your obligation to report an incident like this. With the attention paid to you by the media, it won’t go unnoticed for long.”
“It wasn’t Chaz,” I said, voice cold. The mention of the media dragged out a deep, abiding sense of hatred for the direction my life was now hurtling, no matter how much I wished it otherwise. “I asked you to keep quiet about this because the reporter tailing me—hopefully—doesn’t know yet. Neither does my family.”
“I see. I’d like to know exactly what happened. Are you certain you are infected?”
I rubbed at my forehead as I thought about what to say. How much to tell him. What he might use against me later.
“It’s not certain. I was scratched on Sunday night by one of the shifted Weres. I’ve had a conversation about it with Rohrik Donovan, and he told me I won’t know for sure for maybe three or four weeks.”
“I see.”
“Royce, how did you know something bad was going to happen out there?”
“It’s not something I can risk disclosing over the phone. Next time we meet, I’ll go over it with you.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t do more for you right now. Please believe I didn’t expect anything like this to happen,” he said, some of the cold anger draining out of his voice. Instead, he seemed resigned. “I knew there was a possibility you might have been hurt by one of the people seeking revenge against the Sunstrikers, but I never considered that Chaz would be so careless as to put you in a position to become infected. Our conversations had led me to believe that wasn’t in his plans for you. I apologize for my lack of foresight.”
“Hey, you just apologized to me twice in less than a minute. You’re creeping me out here.”
His laughter was a shadow of the usual ironic tones I was used to hearing from him. “It’s unusual, yes. You’re one of few people I’ve had good reason or desire to apologize to in quite some time. I suppose I should be getting used to it by now.”
“Okay, no pity parties allowed. I’m the one who’s supposed to be upset about all this.”
“Ms. Waynest—Shiarra—I feel some measure of personal responsibility for your well-being. I did as much as I could for you without forcing you to remain by my side. This is not what I would have chosen for your future.”
If not for the sincerity with which he said it, I might have taken offense at his assumptions that he had any right to plot some fate for me. Knowing Royce, it was a bit hard to be angry at him for saying he was sorry he hadn’t turned me into a vampire instead. He hadn’t made it a secret that’s what he wanted from me, after all.
“It’s too late to be sorry. It wasn’t something I wanted, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. All I’m asking is that you stay quiet about this. I may have more questions later. I suppose it depends on how things turn out.”
“That may be so, but it might not be too late to do something to change your future. If you are willing to take the risk, I could make you a vampire instead.”
Chapter 27
“What?” Master of the witty comeback, that’s me.
“It’s possible the infection hasn’t spread enough to prevent the change into a vampire instead. It would be risky, but you could become one of us if you wish. You’ll need to make the choice quickly, though, for I can’t guarantee it would work. The longer you wait, the less likely the change would take hold.”
I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand, scrunching my eyes closed as a stress headache bloomed. “Run that by me again.”
His voice seemed to reach me from a distance, echoing through a wall of shock that had settled comfortably between me and reality. “It may not be too late for you to make a choice. You would be far better off if you were one of us. Immortality alone would be an immense benefit over the reduced lifespan of a Were. Think about it, at the very least.”
“… Reduced lifespan?” For whatever reason, that cut through my haze and brought with it a fresh rush of terror. “Please tell me you are saying that in comparison to the life of a vampire.”
“I’m afraid not. Their increased metabolism helps them heal faster, yes, but it also means their bodies age far more quickly. Though this is certainly not true in every case, and I’m sure there have been no hard scientific studies on the matter, in my experience they do not last much beyond forty, perhaps forty-five years of age.”
More surprises Chaz had never shared with me.
“This is too much. I’m sorry, Royce, it’s—this is just too much. I need to go.”
“I understand. Think about my offer. I’ll check back tonight.”
I hung up without saying good-bye. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and my eyes positively burned with strain, aching in waves that pulsed in time with my now pounding headache. My hands shook, and I struggled to keep from giving in to the looming panic attack.
The choices laid out before me were terrifying. No matter which way I looked at it, there seemed no right answer.
Sit back and do nothing? I might or might not be infected. There was a possibility nothing would happen to me. Arnold might even be able to do something about it; he’d promised to check to see if The Circle had any spells that would cure lycanthropy.
Then again, if I was infected and there was no cure, I could look forward to life as an outcast from Were society, disowned by my family and crucified by the media. Oh, and shaving who knew how many years off my expected lifespan.
If I took Royce’s offer, I’d have an eternity to look forward to of drinking blood, never seeing sunlight, and watching my friends and family gradually die off, one by one. I’d be no more than a monster preying upon people to survive, hiding behind a human mask.
I’d never been particularly religious, despite my mother’s efforts. Popular opinion was that vampires and werewolves had no immortal souls; if they ever had, the soul fled the body once they turned. Either way, in Mom’s eyes, I’d be treading the path of the damned.
Sick did not begin to cover how I felt.
I stayed that way on the bed, empty, drained of life and unable to do so much as shed a tear, for quite a long time. It wasn’t until nearly noon that I realized how late it had gotten and that Sara had neither shown nor called. I checked the office to see if she’d forgotten to pick me up and gone in without me. The answering machine greeted me instead of Jen’s cheerful voice. Frowning, I called Sara’s cell next, my concern deepening as the call went straight to voice
mail—which was completely full and wouldn’t accept any new messages.
Not wanting to deal with what that might mean, I tossed the phone down and headed for the shower. That should help me wake up a bit. Perhaps Sara’s phone would be turned back on after I got out.
Twenty minutes later, I was clean, refreshed, and didn’t look quite so much like I’d just risen from the dead. My temper wasn’t improved, but that was par for the course.
When I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, Sara was sitting on my bed, gray faced. She looked as bad as I felt; her blond hair, normally salon-straight and perfectly coiffed, was tangled and unbrushed. Her clear blue eyes were bloodshot, while her skin had taken on an ashen pallor under the late summer tan. Even her clothes, usually perfectly pressed, were rumpled, the buttons on her shirt done up unevenly.
“Jesus, Sara, you look like shit.”
What would normally have gotten a similar crack out of her didn’t come off quite as I’d expected. She burst into tears.
“Holy hell, what’s wrong?!” I rushed forward, but she held up a hand to stop me, wiping at her eyes with the other. She still didn’t say anything. Frustrated, I backtracked, grabbed a box of tissues from the bathroom, and settled down beside her on the bed. As she took one of the tissues I offered, I noticed the papers crumpling up under my butt; I’d sat down on a newspaper.
I rose just enough to pull the papers from under me, staring at the headline screaming off the first page of today’s news.
NEW YORK’S WEREWOLVES DON’T PLAY
BY THE RULES
By JIM PRADIZ
MANHATTAN (Oct. 6) – A dangerous trend has surfaced in New York’s werewolf community. Local packs have come under intense scrutiny by government-funded regulatory bodies; recent investigations into the actions of the Sunstriker and Ravenwood packs have produced evidence that some of these werewolves don’t adhere to federal guidelines of gaining signed authorization from their victims prior to exposure to the lycanthropy virus.
Evidence is mounting that many of these werewolves have chosen to work outside the bounds of the required contracts that legalize intimate contact between humans and Others. When the Other-Citizen Amendment to the Constitution, Article XIV-1(B), was passed on November 12, 2001, it was determined that no intimate physical contact would be permitted between Others and any human who had not yet signed and filed an agreement giving their full consent to potential injury or death at the hands of their Other-citizen sponsor.
It has become apparent that New York’s werewolves do not always honor this legal requirement. Instances have been documented of some of these creatures having potentially infected and even turned humans without a legally signed and filed contract in place.
Deputy Chief of Police Alberto Rodriguez made a statement regarding the accusations. “We have received reports of unlawful activity in the Other community. Rest assured, this situation is under investigation. All I can say at this point is that anyone considering friendship or close connection to an Other-citizen should be very wary of the potential consequences.”
Calls for comment to the leaders of the Sunstrikers and Ravenwoods have not been returned. Rohrik Donovan, leader of the Moonwalkers and lauded for his involvement in Other-citizen rights activities, refused to comment. Donovan is best known for his work to spearhead progressive changes for Other-citizens to help them be more accepted by our society.
This reporter has found in the process of undercover investigation information that victims of potential or confirmed infection outside of a contract include:
• Trish Booker, the CEO of Fortune 5,000 company Gen-U-Con, Inc.;
• Reed Thompson, a student at NYU;
• Ethan Peyton, an EMT;
• Patrick Driscoll, an attorney;
• Aurora Vacchio, an actress; and
• Shiarra Waynest, local private investigator.
(See photo spread, next page.)
Deputy Chief Rodriguez confirmed that there may be other victims based on witness statements and evidence at hand, but that no arrests have yet been made. Several suspects have been detained for questioning.
Per public records, Waynest and Booker were contractually bound to vampire Alec Royce prior to exposure to lycanthropy infection. No records were found of contracts lawfully filed involving the victims and the werewolves identified in the incidents, or documentation indicating a connection with or an end to their obligations to the vampire.
Comments from such anti-werewolf groups as Mothers Against Others and the White Hats have been unanimous: “Something must be done to stop these creatures from spreading their disease.”
I stared down at the spread. Turned the page. Stared at the pictures.
No wonder the reporter hadn’t bothered me since that brief meeting at breakfast. He’d snapped pictures of me clutching my injured arm, one of the werewolves visible as a huge presence looming nearby. Jim must have set up camp somewhere outside, waiting patiently for someone to do something stupid enough to merit a spot in his story, which he’d clearly been planning to print regardless of what happened over the weekend. The other victims pictured were caught in similar poses, looking as frightened and shocked as I did as they clutched at what were obviously fresh wounds from the werewolves looming in the background. How he’d managed to capture the photos wasn’t my concern.
With that picture of me to act as the proverbial icing, he had neatly ruined every chance I had of keeping my problem a secret.
Though my reaction was delayed by shock, it didn’t take long for the enormity of having my picture and name attached to the article hit me. The papers fell from my nerveless fingers, scattering on the floor as I sank back onto the bed. Sara was watching me with watery eyes, the tissue clutched over her mouth.
I closed my eyes and bowed my head, saying nothing. My whole body shook with the effort of containing my fury. The need to find an outlet was sudden and intense. The desire to take out the belt and use it for the hunt was greater than anything I had ever experienced, even eclipsing the memories of craving and withdrawal from Royce’s blood. If I wasn’t careful, I might lash out at anyone at this point—even Sara.
“They’ve been calling the office,” she said, hushed, uncertain.
I paused before speaking, afraid of what might spill out of my mouth if I wasn’t careful. “Who?”
“Police. Reporters. Political activists. You name it. I gave Jen the okay to turn the phone off. They’ve been calling my cell, too.”
My neck creaked from tension when I turned to her. For her part, she held her ground, not flinching at the look I gave her.
“It won’t be long before they start knocking on our doors,” she said, ever so gently placing a hand on my arm. She wasn’t afraid of me; she was concerned. That brought with it a breath of relief, brief and ephemeral as butterfly wings. “Do you want to stay with me until the worst of this blows over?”
I looked around the tiny bedroom, at the pictures hanging on the wall, and the tchotchkes lined up on my dresser. My gaze zeroed in on the picture in the middle. My whole family gathered in the backyard, with Sara and Chaz and Arnold, taken at my younger brother’s birthday party earlier this year. Arnold had been pretending to be my boyfriend that day; Chaz hadn’t liked it, but he’d been civil enough about it. That day had started the chain of events that led to my getting back together with him, back when I thought he was a decent guy. When I thought that breaking up with him had been a mistake.
If not for him, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Sara wouldn’t be looking at me with a mixture of pity and horror.
I wouldn’t have to worry about how long it would take before my parents or brothers saw the paper.
“I don’t know,” I finally replied, the heavy weight of the statement making my voice raw. “My dad has probably already seen this. He always reads the paper in the morning. Did he call the office? My cell was broken on the trip.”
“I haven’t heard from him or your mom yet.
I turned off my cell when I figured out yours was off, too. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier, but I needed a little time… .” She trailed off, voice faint.
I offered a weak smile, which she didn’t return. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not judging. For talking to me about it. For offering to let me stay with you. Shit, Sara, I don’t know. For being my friend.”
She leaned over to put her arm around me, plucking up the box between us and pressing a tissue into my hands. Only then did I realize that tears were spilling down my cheeks.
“Fuck going into work today. Do you have any alcohol?”
Chapter 28
After I got dressed, we spent the next few hours alternately packing up some essentials and crying over ice cream and coffee liberally spiked with Bailey’s and some of the aged whiskey I’d tucked in the back of the fridge, saved for a special occasion. Sara asked some tough questions I didn’t know how to answer. When I explained that I’d sent Arnold on a mission to find a cure, she nodded and said nothing, though I could tell she was hurt that I’d told her boyfriend before her.
We decided to wait a few hours for the alcohol buzz to pass out of our systems before leaving for her place, passing the time in planning and arguing. I gave her the no-holds-barred account of what had occurred over the weekend. We ranted and railed about Chaz’s infidelity together before easing off into a subject that was, in its way, even tougher for me to face than my plans for dealing with the Sunstrikers.
