by Sarah Noffke
Orion pushed the receiver into his ear and turned so his nose was almost pressing against the wall. The phone in the common area of the brownstone wasn’t as private as he would have liked, but nothing was really private about the residence he shared with six other singles.
“I need to speak to Dr. Roland,” he said and then paused, his hand now shaking next to his ear. “This is Orion Murray.”
“Is this a medical or psychiatric emergency?” the receptionist said.
“No,” Orion said, but that wasn’t the truth. Never before had the panic crowded his mind so much, making him think he’d give himself a heart attack. “Will you please just tell her that I need to talk to her?”
“You said your name was…”
“Orion Murray,” he said, feeling like that wasn’t his name anymore. That he wasn’t himself anymore.
“Hold on. She’s between clients now. I’ll tell her you’re on the line,” she said.
Orion tried to respond but instead nodded at the wall just as one of the other residents walked by. The anxiety prickled his head in the way it always did when strangers were around, even if just passing. However, when he was in the lab having things done to him, the other prisoners made him feel less alone for once. Hearing their screams made his own suffering seem acceptable. Maybe now, if the men from the lab were around him, sharing their traumas, Orion wouldn’t feel on this edge where jumping was the only viable option. He needed someone to grieve with him, to share in the pain associated with the weekly change.
“Orion!” a woman said on the other side of the line. “Is this really you?”
He blew out a breath at the sound of Dr. Roland’s voice. Veronica, that was her first name, but he only called her that in his dreams. “Yes, it’s really me,” he said. Did she miss him? Was she allowed to based on their purely clinical association?
“Where have you been? There was a missing person report? The authorities… Are you all right?” she said, all her questions filled with concern, or so he wanted to think they were.
“I’m fine…” Orion said, trailing away, noticing that Veronica’s voice simultaneously made him suddenly able to breathe and also elevated the pulsing in his stomach. How could she put him at ease and also excite him at the same time?
“What’s going on?” she said, and now she sounded cautious. “Have you been taking your meds?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head at the wall. “Actually, I’m not fine. I was abducted by… well, I don’t know who they were. But I escaped. And now I’m afraid to go to the authorities. I need help though. Will you see me? Come to me?”
“Abducted?” she said, and there was so much doubt in that one word that it instantly sent Orion’s heart back into a series of palpitations. “Orion, you have to start back on your meds. I can write you a new prescription if you need. The paranoia isn’t going away unless we have you balanced.”
“I’m telling the truth,” Orion said, launching his foot at the wall. It produced a long cracking sound and then it shook the wall. “You have to believe me.”
“Let’s start from the beginning,” she said, her voice returning to the normal clinical tone. “What have you been doing since you went missing?”
“I’ve been a prisoner. I told you,” he said, and cupped the phone to his mouth. He needed to say the next sentence, but a paralyzing fear told him that the phone was probably tapped and this would bring the end for him. Orion sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. “These people, the ones who took me, made me into a werewolf.”
A long pause followed his sentence, seeming to capture it and bind it with doubt. “Orion, do you remember when we talked about reality and the imagined? Remember how I told you that you could ascertain the two from each other?” Dr. Roland said.
She didn’t believe him. His only chance to be saved, and Dr. Roland didn’t believe him. Tears slipped automatically to the surface, welling in his brown eyes, the ones that glowed when he changed.
“Orion!” a voice said at his back.
He swiveled around to find his landlady with her wrinkled hands on her hips. “Was that you? Did you make that loud noise?”
“I have to go,” he said, slamming the receiver down on its cradle. “No, it wasn’t me,” he said, turning away from Mrs. Wilson. The pursed look on the old woman’s face lit a fuse inside him, one connected to something fiercely violent.
“Get back here,” the woman said, as he spun away. The urge to knock her down and break her over and over again was too strong. The strongest it had ever been. The wolf wanted to be let out of the cage and to act on its aggression.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, employing his super speed to clear the hallway and round the corner, up to his room.
Chapter Twelve
“Shortly after the current United States administration installed retina scanners in the Pentagon, a major theft occurred at more than three thousand optometrist offices nationwide, where retina scans were stolen. When the President was questioned, he admitted being encouraged to install retina scanners by a generous donor. An Alexander Drake.”
- Lucidite Institute, Werewolf Project File
The teal blue and neon green top hat was firm, but soft in Connor’s hands. He pressed his eyes shut and allowed the information to pour into his mind. That’s all he ever had to do. His psychometry was as easy to access as breathing. Zephyr had said that using his X-ray vision was based on intention and drained him, but that hadn’t been Connor’s experience with his gift. He opened his eyes to find the patron before him smiling with kind eyes. Connor’s booth was the new big hit at Ferocity Carnival. People lined up early at Wolf Predictions to have Connor tell them what they usually already knew about their possessions.
“You haven’t worn this hat yet,” Connor said to the man.
“That’s right, my boy,” the man with a mustache to impress said, slapping his knee. “I just bought it. I was hoping you could tell me something about it.”
Connor stared down at the top hat. It wasn’t new and it wasn’t extremely old. It wasn’t in pristine condition, but it wasn’t worn either. The man bought it from a thrift store in Seattle. “The hat had a short life sitting in a trunk, but was never worn in any of the shows,” Connor told him.
“Shows where?” the man said, leaning forward, looking curious.
“Vaudeville,” Connor said, seeing the backstage area clearly in his mind. “It then sat on a shelf at a pianist’s house for a few decades before being sold to the thrift store where you bought it.”
“It sounds like it’s time this hat got some action,” the man said, with a warm chuckle. He was a strange sort. Nice and jubilant. But why? Why were some people overly pleasant? Connor had never understood this.
“Yeah, I guess,” Connor said, eyeing the row of people waiting to have their objects read. “That’s all I’ve got for you.”
“Well, it’s enough. It tells me what I wanted to know, that the hat has a past, and needs a future. Seems I should make a matching suit for it now,” the man said, standing and dusting off his slacks.
“Good luck,” Connor said, wishing the day was over and he was lying in his bunk in sleeper row, high as an air balloon on a windy day. The owner of Ferocity Carnival had given him a bunk in one of the semis rent-free. And since Connor pulled in three hundred a day with his booth, he was making great cash. However, he never had any money remaining after he left a town. And lately he thought he should stay outside the carnival since more than once one of the Gottimer twins had snuck into his bunk area and forced themselves on him. Each time he shoved them away, feeling a strange guilt. To have a girl touch him felt like a betrayal, but he didn’t know why. All he knew was that often he dreamed of Adelaide. The drugs made it impossible to dream travel and therefore his consciousness was forced to experience only Middling dreams, which were ramblings of his thoughts and the day’s events.
The man turned away from Connor’s booth but then
spun back, a glint in his blue eyes. “You know, you have a great skill. One that I’d dare say people only dream about. One unique to a certain race, I’d even admit,” the man said and then winked. “I’m sure you’re happy here, but I’ve started a circus and would love to employ you, if you’re interested.”
“Circus? How’s that different than this?” Connor said, throwing his arm at the row of booths where greedy men stole children’s money for games they couldn’t win.
“Well, this is a fine establishment,” the man said, tucking his thumbs into his jacket. “However, Vagabond Circus will serve to bring real magic to people’s lives. And I’d dare say that you, my boy, have real magic in you, the kind I’m looking for.”
Connor considered the man. Compared him to the owner of Ferocity Carnival, who was always trying to renegotiate their deal. Maybe he should take this guy up on his offer. However, this didn’t look like the kind of man who would turn a blind eye when Connor showed up to work too high to perform. He’d probably throw him out or try and save his miserable soul.
“Sorry, mister, I’m not interested,” Connor said, waving the next patron forward.
“If you change your mind, then know my big top is always open to you. I’d love to have talent like yours at Vagabond Circus. You could be great, my boy,” the man said, handing a shiny business card to him.
Chapter Thirteen
“Records taken from the Pentagon were used to determine the right subjects to use for the experiments. It was decided that using Middling men with high IQs, a tendency toward rebellion, and also not attached to family or career would make the best subjects.”
- Olento Research, Canis Lupus Project File
“So,” Rox said, drawing out the word. “What are you doing later?”
Zephyr lifted his gaze away from the neon sign on the other side of the street. The Gaslamp quarter in San Diego was where rich kids who undervalued their liver came to party. Every one of them thought they were so cool with their popped up collars or their hair extensions. None of them knew what it was like to fight, to survive, to lose men in battle. They also didn’t know what the people who served this country went through so they could buy expensive cocktails with their parents’ credit cards.
“Why?” he said, a snarl to his voice.
Rox shrugged, her leather jacket making a pinching sound. “Oh, I don’t know, I just figured we might actually want to celebrate once we’re successful on this part of the case. We’ve been shut up at the Institute for a while, it seems.” She took a long breath, her eyes lighting up in the dark alleyway. “I get antsy if I don’t get outside on a regular basis.”
“Yeah, me too,” Zephyr agreed easily. It wasn’t just the wolf in him that longed to run through the wild and have the bliss of only nature all around him. He’d been like that as a kid, longing for trees, escaping to the outdoors whenever he could. “But who says we’re going to have anything to celebrate? Rio, according to Adelaide, is drunk, and hyped up on aggression.”
“I like to plan for inevitable wins,” Rox said, tossing her blonde hair back. It was short, just under her ears, which made her appear sassy and carefree. Zephyr’s ex-girlfriend had long hair down to the middle of her back. If he could bottle the amount of time he spent waiting around for her to do her hair then he’d have the equivalent to a year’s leave.
“If we get caught doing whatever it is that you have in mind then you’re going to get thrown off this case and out of the Institute,” Zephyr said.
“So you don’t want to hang out, is that what you’re saying?” Rox said, sounding matter-of-fact.
“I’m saying you should be careful,” Zephyr said, but that wasn’t what he was really saying. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. Yes, he actually liked the idea of doing something away from the pack and the Institute with Rox. But no, it wasn’t a good idea. Nothing about her seemed like a good idea.
“Yeah, okay. Forget about it,” she said, and she sounded absolutely fine with forgetting about it, like it hadn’t bothered her at all getting rejected. “Your dog is headed this way,” she said, pointing down the street that wasn’t as busy on that end.
Zephyr’s excellent vision honed in on a figure, seeing it crisply in the dark night. Rio wasn’t staggering, but from the way he walked Zephyr could tell he wasn’t sober. Drunk people have a looser stride when they move, and their gaze is usually in front of them, their attention not sharpened on everything surrounding them.
Zephyr shot a look at Rox, gauging her stance, which was straight and ready. “You prepared if we have to fight?”
She nodded.
“I’ll take the lead, but watch my back. He’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Zephyr said, and strangely felt reassured that Rox was with him. The werewolves, he knew from being in his own mind, weren’t reasonable people. The wolf did things to their thoughts, made them think things that weren’t conducive for a balanced perspective.
“So we aren’t going to jump him, like I did to you when we first met?” Rox said, hiding a grin.
“No, I think that’s the wrong approach for confronting a man who can rip my head off with his hand,” Zephyr said, stepping forward out of the shadow so the light from the street brought him into view.
Rio paused, twenty-five feet away. First his eyes swiveled to Zephyr and then his nostrils pinched back, like he’d caught a scent. “What do you want?” Rio said across the long sidewalk.
So he’d recognized Zephyr. He’d wondered if that would be the case, based on their limited time together at the lab. To Zephyr’s benefit, he was pretty recognizable with his jet black and silver hair.
“I want to help you,” Zephyr said, taking a step forward.
Rio’s large shoulders hunched down, his almost black eyes glowing in the dark. He looked like a bull about to charge, and Zephyr honestly thought he’d prefer the horned animal to Rio.
“I want you to help me,” Zephyr added. “That guy in the bar deserved what you did to him, but we both know that the way you reacted isn’t you. It’s the wolf. I know people who can help. Who can protect us from the ones who did this to us.”
“I don’t need prot—” Rio began and then stopped mid-sentence. “How do you know about the bar?”
As Zephyr neared, he could smell the liquor on Rio’s breath. And he could also see the craze in his eyes. The alcohol had unleashed the beast and it wanted a fight. It wanted to tear into something.
“The people I’m working with, they told me,” Zephyr said and then sucked in a breath. Rio’s hand had shot forward on the heels of his words and were now wrapped around Zephyr’s throat. In a swift movement Rio plucked him off the ground, holding him in the air. He tried to suck in a breath, but the grip was too tight around his throat. Zephyr pictured he looked like a doll hanging in the air, his feet dangling. His hands reached for the grip around his neck, but that was a useless attempt. Then he realized he didn’t need to fight Rio. He only needed to assert his influence. In the dark of the night Zephyr’s gray eyes glowed for an instant, the wolf making its presence known. Then through the constriction around his throat he said, “Put me down now!”
Rio’s eyes widened and he loosened his grip on Zephyr, almost letting him slip from his grasp. And then the silver of a blade materialized in front of his eyes and for only a second Zephyr didn’t know what it was.
“Drop him or I slice open your windpipe, big dog,” he heard Rox say on the other side of Rio. She was tall and her heels made it so holding a knife against Rio’s throat from behind him wasn’t too difficult.
The grip loosened as the fear in Rio’s eyes slipped to the surface. The boiling rage now took a bow to self-preservation. Zephyr’s hands pried the fingers off his throat and he reunited with the ground with a thud, backing away immediately. “We don’t want trouble,” Zephyr said, his voice calm, but with authority. “I want you to calm down and not resort to violence.”
Rox pulled the knife
away and sidestepped just as Rio spun to face her. His eyes grew large with awe and confusion at the sight of the girl brandishing a five-inch hunting knife.
“You pulled a knife on me,” Rio said, stepping toward the girl who didn’t look at all flustered.
“You picked up my boy. Think we’re even,” she said, a laugh in her voice.
“It wasn’t actually necessary. I had it under control,” Zephyr said to Rox, irritation written on his face.
“Yeah, you did, but it’s no fun if I don’t get to play too,” Rox said.
He only shook his head before turning his gaze back on Rio. “We really need your help,” Zephyr said, gaining his attention. He sounded authoritative, but also calm. It was the voice he used when things were stressful, but he still needed his men to get the job done. “The only way we can all stay protected and fight whoever turned us into werewolves is if we band together. I’m working with an organization that will protect us, help us and possibly fix this mutation. I want you on my team. I want your help reassembling the pack.”
Rio blanched with honest confusion and then scratched the back of his head. “Team?” he said, like that was the hard part of this to understand. “You’re building a team?”
Zephyr shook his head. “No, I’m putting us all back together. Someone, an organization, abducted us and made us into werewolves. You know you can’t forever exist doing whatever you’re doing and trying to suppress the wolf. For one, the people who did this to you are out there and they want us back. And secondly, it starts with bar fights and it ends with murder. You know the wolf can’t forever be tamed.”
“So what are you proposing?” Rio said, and his stance had changed drastically. His shoulders were low now, and his chin tucked, like he was slightly bowing to Zephyr.
In the not so far off distance, Zephyr heard the sirens. The shouting. The authorities had been called and they were looking for Rio by now.
“Come to the Lucidite Institute with us. From there we can explain everything. And I have a feeling you’re going to be extremely useful in future cases,” Zephyr said.
