The Accords Triptych (Book 1): Wolves Without Teeth

by Thomas, Ian

  “Shit!” Eddie said, catching up to him. “Didn’t think of that.”

  “He’s a good guy.” McLachlan parroted Eddie’s own words back at him.

  “At least I can get advice from Jason.”

  “Because he’s gonna be less protective.” Eddie was about to protest when they saw a large black truck parked outside the entrance to the Vinaio building. Nondescript and parked in a loading zone, the truck was as unremarkable as the light-skinned black youth in overalls by the cordoned-off front doors. Passersby paid him little attention. When a woman went to pass him for the door, he flashed her a charming smile and McLachlan heard him say ‘gas leak’. She looked cautiously at the building, then turned to leave.

  “Hey Jackson,” Eddie said quietly.

  “Give me a second,” the youth replied, his mouth barely moving. McLachlan didn’t mind the wolf-whispering, he’d learned to look out for it. Or at least expect it when two or more wolves were in public. Jackson seemed focused on the woman he had turned away. She was already on her cellphone and heading for the corner. When she stepped out of sight, he lifted the cordon for them and they slipped inside the building.

  Immediately, the smell of blood was overpowering. McLachlan hadn’t realized the body was at Vinaio, but there on the marble floor was the body of the young woman from the coffee-cart, her throat torn out. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. Blood was splattered on the ground and walls around her proving just how vicious the attack had been.

  Standing over the body were four men, all looking grimly affected by the death. When they turned their attention to him and Eddie, McLachlan didn’t feel very welcome. Matteo was the only one whose expression lightened. Or was it that the other men’s faces hardened when they saw him.

  “Proctor.” McLachlan nodded his head to the grimmest of the three. Grudgingly, the nod was acknowledged and returned. Possibly, the oldest wolf present, the legends surrounding Proctor were numerous and immense. Some said he was a direct descendant of the first wolf, others that he was one generation removed. Whether his history featured him as a Roman legionnaire, a Norse berserker, English knight, or Persian assassin, Proctor had always known some form of military service. Thus he created the War Wolves, an elite cadre of soldiers to protect the Pack Lord and safe guard humanity from the ravages of the supernatural. McLachlan would have ascribed to their philosophies if he hadn’t seen how brutal their methods could be. The man had a somber disposition on the best of days, his handsome dark face etched with centuries of war and loss. McLachlan had never once seen him crack a smile. That said, McLachlan had never seen the man in a time of peace.

  “McLachlan,” the man replied, his voice gravel.

  “Hale. Isaac.” McLachlan addressed the two other men, feeling very much the outsider among the wolves. Slightly shorter than Proctor and Matteo, Hale had a matched stern set to his features. A wild glint to his eyes betrayed the civil mask he wore for the world, beneath which churned a temperament he had long tried to bridle. He was Proctor’s second in command and much younger, having only been sired three hundred years ago.

  Leaving Isaac with his hooded eyes and no traceable history beyond being found by Proctor in the trenches of World War I. Where Proctor was the leader of the group, Hale his unflinching second, Isaac handled information for the group. Enigmatic and mysterious just the way he liked it, Isaac had a talent for espionage which left McLachlan struggling to trust the man.

  “Vessel,” Hale said plainly.

  Given that the War Wolves had helped with the Cult during The Ordeal, McLachlan wasn’t about to make comment on the slight. Even Eddie was taken aback.

  “Thank you again for your assist with the Cult,” he managed, having bit back several sarcastic rejoinders.

  “They had taken the Pack Lord,” Hale replied. “We were obliged to intervene.”

  “Which was appreciated,” Eddie said suddenly, feeling McLachlan bristle beside him. “For the Cult to make a move against Matteo was assuredly cowardice, and yet not only did you save him but you also averted the arrival of the demon, Mammon.”

  While that wasn’t exactly how McLachlan remembered it – nor how Rebecca had recounted it to him afterwards – he was not about to correct Eddie. He had to admit, he understood his friend’s role as the War Wolves diplomat. A role he had fallen into sometime during the last century.

  “And now this,” Eddie continued, his tone serious.

  “Such a waste,” Proctor said quietly, crouching by the young woman.

  “You okay?” McLachlan asked, moving closely to Matteo.

  Hale and Isaac exchanged a look that McLachlan was fully aware of, just exercising enough restraint not to say anything.

  “Yeah, just unexpected is all,” Matteo said. “I knew her.” Something in his tone caught McLachlan’s attention. Was he the only one that noticed? Apparently so. Which, of course, brought up a whole host of other questions, but McLachlan decided to let them slide for the time being.

  “And after yesterday?”

  “The funeral?” Matteo asked, a little surprised. He was about to respond when Hale stepped forward.

  “We’re sorry we didn’t accompany you. If we had known Ben would follow we wouldn’t have let you go alone.”

  McLachlan was about to protest when Matteo put a hand on Hale’s shoulder, “you weren’t to know. Besides you all have your own lives. I don’t expect you to be in attendance twenty-four-seven.” With a smile, he dismissed the man’s concern and laid down an unspoken edict that he wanted space. “Ben’s desperate. He’ll try anything.”

  “And how goes tracking him?” Eddie asked Isaac. The man had been quiet this whole time. Not uncharacteristic, but McLachlan felt like he was being watched. He wondered if they knew about Dylan and the silver bullet.

  “Storm and Flynn have that mission,” Isaac replied, still looking at McLachlan. “Though they’re finding it hard since he took up with that woman from the Cult.” Wishing he had enough presence to get them to focus on the dead woman, McLachlan felt uncomfortable with the focus directed at him. “Seems to be moving around a lot. None of his usual aliases are coming up. They’ll find him though.”

  “What do you make of this attack?” McLachlan hoped he’d found a natural segue.

  “Same manner as the body at the Daily Grind,” Proctor said, rising to his feet.

  “So vampire?” McLachlan asked.

  “Or at least made to look like it,” Isaac said.

  “Then what else?”

  “Ben,” Hale replied.

  McLachlan looked at Matteo to gauge his reaction. To his credit, he kept the anger in check. “He would not hide behind that kind of ruse.”

  “Was a time he wouldn’t betray you either,” Hale said angrily. “Maybe he’s wors–”

  “It’s a vampire,” Matteo said firmly. “Look at the tearing of the flesh. Young one at that. Our teeth don’t tear flesh in that manner.” A ripple of anger passed between Matteo and Hale.

  After a second, Isaac stepped forward. “Then we have bigger problems.” He looked directly at McLachlan, his face expressionless. “Your accords seem to be crumbling.”

  Feeling all eyes on him, McLachlan cleared his throat to speak. “As Matteo said, this is likely a young vampire. Possibly an out of town blood, looking for a court.”

  “What does Gracchus say about this?” Hale said, pressing him. “I mean you have taken this to him after all.” Well, aren’t you just an asshole, McLachlan decided, looking to Isaac. It might have been Hale asking, but they were Isaac’s words. He couldn’t fathom how the wolf knew about his failed audience with Gracchus, but he did. And so did the War Wolves.

  “Gracchus too, assisted with the Cult ordeal,” McLachlan said. “He’s very concerned, like yourselves, about where and when the supernatural intersects with the natural.” Channel Eddie. Be diplomatic, be a calm wind, pour oil on troubled waters or whatever that idiom meant.

  “He should be more concerned about
his own people,” Isaac announced. “From what I’ve heard the vampires are champing at the bit. Little pissed us wolves get to live in the light while they starve.” All eyes fell to the dead woman on the floor.

  “I hadn’t heard that,” Matteo said, rescuing McLachlan. “Gracchus would not stand for such insolence in his court.”

  “Only what I heard.” Isaac held his hands up, backing away. “Nothing more.”

  “Gracchus would be foolish to want a war with the wolves,” Hale said.

  “He wouldn’t,” Matteo said firmly. “The accords are sound. McLachlan will request another audience. This is all we can do.” His tone told McLachlan in no uncertain terms, he needed to see Gracchus immediately.

  “It will happen. Gracchus is a good man.” McLachlan saw Isaac and Hale scowl at the word. Though which one? ‘Good’ or was it ‘man’? He could try and channel Eddie all he wanted, be the oil water thing, think peaceful thoughts. But he was McLachlan. And that had to mean something. “Hey, those accords aren’t gonna hold if you’re basically throwing shade at them. Not gonna defend the little suckers, but vampires have been pretty good with their end of the accords. Maybe you could respect that.”

  Both men’s eyes flashed gold and black in the tense silence, but it was Proctor who addressed the room.

  “McLachlan’s right,” Proctor said, startling everyone present. “If it weren’t for him or the vampires, the Pack War would have gone a very different way. Not could have. It would have. How can we uphold the role of protectors if we have prejudices?”

  “Thank you,” McLachlan said.

  “It’s not their fault they’re bloodsuckers or former demonic vessels,” Proctor added.

  “Could have stopped before. But it’s okay. That’s out there now.”

  “Let’s hope it’s just a rogue blood,” Matteo said. “Gracchus will see to his own.”

  With stern nods in agreement, the matter seemed settled.

  “Or,” McLachlan suggested suddenly.

  “No ‘or’,” Eddie said, grabbing McLachlan by the arm. “Please, no ‘or’.”

  “Or it is Ben.” The three War Wolves stiffened at his words. He knew he was breaking all manner of werewolf protocol, but he had to voice his thoughts. Not all of them. Just this one. “Or Ben-adjacent?”

  “Can you elaborate,” Matteo said.

  “First, the body at the Daily Grind. Now a body here. At Vinaio.” He was surprised to see that Proctor and his men hadn’t posited the connection. “It’s very specific. Like a child lashing out. It’s personal. This,” he gestured to the dead woman, “is personal.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s Ben,” Isaac said with a sneer.

  “Oh so someone else has beef with Eddie and Matteo? Disgruntled coffee customer perhaps? Fuck me, it’s Starbucks. Case closed, y’all.” Isaac growled at him, but McLachlan was ready for him. “Or are you just pissed you didn’t make the link?”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s not Ben,” Eddie said. “He could have gotten back to the city last night.”

  “I don’t think it’s him,” Matteo said, though his voice lacked conviction. “The teeth–”

  “Don’t think it’s who?” a woman said behind them. Her voice seemed odd given the room full of testosterone, yet welcome nonetheless.

  “Rowan.” Matteo walked over to her, his manner warm.

  “Oh my god,” she declared, looking at the scene. “Did I just walk into some misogynist ad for shoes? There’s a dead woman at your feet, and you’re just standing there?!” Eyeballing each and every one of them – Pack Lord included – she shamed them into submission. “No one thought to cover her up? Typical.” She shrugged off her coat and handed it to Michael who had entered behind her. “Just once I want you wolves to move beyond the macho-posing and think of the optics.” Matteo put an arm around her. “Don’t. You’re better than this. She deserved better than this.”

  The men froze.

  Werewolves talked a big game. As self-appointed policemen of the supernatural, they claimed to remember the fragility of the human condition. And to some extent they were right. After all they lived within the mortal world, were monstrous three nights a month, and didn’t see everyday people as livestock. However, amid such posturing wolves sometimes forgot their humanity. With the murder so close to Matteo, their care and investment had negated respect for the victim.

  Trust Rowan to pull them into line, McLachlan mused a little smugly. While they may regard him like something they stepped in, none would dare to treat Rowan as such. When she spoke, wolves listened.

  “Actually Michael, can you try not to get any blood on that. It’s cashmere. Oh let me.” But McLachlan had taken his jacket off and laid it over the young woman. “Good, nice. Cotton? Yeah, that’ll wash right out.”

  “Matteo,” Hale said loudly. “Should we be expecting anyone else? One of the immortals? A revenant? Maybe Gracchus will grace us with his presence after all?”

  “Hale,” Eddie said firmly. Proctor gave his second in command a stern look.

  “No,” Matteo said. “Let him speak.”

  “Treason,” Proctor added quickly. Then he took a breath and his expression softened. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

  “I think I’d like to hear it,” Matteo said. “As Pack Lord and all.”

  Proctor cast Hale a wary look. Not that it was heeded as the man lifted his chin to speak. “With all due respect–”

  “Which means with none at all,” Matteo cut in, beating McLachlan to saying it. “But please go on.”

  “While I do not agree with Ben’s methods or agenda, his point was somewhat valid. For the Pack Lord, you do keep a lot of non-werewolf company.”

  “Because there’s only so long you talk lunar cycles and hair products before you want to suck on some silver,” Matteo replied brutally. “This is the greatest time of peace among supernaturals. Because we stopped being so partisan.”

  “All due–” Isaac caught himself before he blundered on. “Sir, none of us were meant to be creatures of peace.”

  Matteo drew himself up to his full height, an arm still around Rowan’s shoulders. “See that this matter is handled sensitively. Let me know when it is done so I can contact the family. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  “Matteo,” Proctor said.

  “You’ll be appraised of the meeting with Gracchus.”

  Walking with Rowan, Matteo headed to the elevator, Michael following behind them. Glancing at Eddie, McLachlan knew their exit was only adding to the rift Ben had started.

  “Not going with?” Eddie asked.

  Rebecca // 12:29

  Something’s come up.

  Not looking like tonight’s going to work out.

  Please don’t friend-zone me!

  Tomorrow night’s locked in.

  Nothing short of the apocalypse will stop us.

  Okay, probably shouldn’t joke about that.

  “Gotta go wake a vampire overlord,” McLachlan said with a shrug. “Guess a garlic bagel’s a little inappropriate.”

  McLachlan wasn’t sure but he thought he heard one of the War Wolves start to laugh, but their expressions betrayed nothing. With a parting glance at the woman lying under his coat, he left the foyer for the busy street beyond. As he exited the building his phone chimed with a message…

  Dylan // 7:31

  Back in old blighty – really need to ask

  why they call it that. Safe and sound.

  Good luck with the second date.

  Will call later.

  XII

  Curiously, Dylan hadn’t considered life after Julie.

  Being happier went without saying, but he’d never thought about the ramifications. Was that because he figured she’d be dead?

  Ever since leaving McLachlan in Kansas and boarding flight after flight to avoid being traced, the realization had sunk in. That she was out there, possibly wanting revenge. And that his carbon footprint was going to be huge as a result.r />
  As the last plane bumped down at Heathrow, Dylan felt anxious. Maybe he was safer in New York with McLachlan and his Merry Band of Monsters vowing never to say that name aloud. He hadn’t been lying about having a life in London. In fact as he exited passport control and entered the arrivals hall, he saw a cardboard sign with the words ‘Annoying American’ scrawled on it and knew he was home.

  “Dylan!” Annie called, waving him over.

  “What was the point of the sign?” her husband Freddie groaned.

  “Nice to see you’re past crayons, guv’ner.” Dylan pulled Freddie into a hug. Immediately, the Brit was uncomfortable with the gesture. A matter Dylan always addressed. “It’s called a hug. Now put your hands – atta boy. See those lessons are paying off.”

  “When do I grab your bum?” Freddie asked.

  “Out of the way,” Annie said, throwing her arms around Dylan.

  “Now she knows how to hug,” Dylan said. “Take notes.”

  “Oh my god, you got fat!” Annie declared. “We let you go back to the land of deep-fried-everything for two weeks and you come back twice the size.”

  “I’m not twice the size.”

  “My hands used to be able to touch when I did this a month ago.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” Dylan said as they started walking out of the airport.

  “Oh, it’s so good to have you back. Feels like it’s been ages. Hold it, be right back. My mum’ll kill me if I don’t get her one of those giant Toblerones.” As Annie dashed off to a shop, Freddie clapped a hand on Dylan’s back. A gesture he was far more comfortable with.

  “She alright?” Dylan asked.

  “Of course, just hasn’t gotten out much since the baby was born. Big day for her.”

  Freddie, or rather Sir Fredrick Highbrook III, was a lawyer at the same firm as Dylan.