Wulf, Tales of the Chosen

by Kayelle Allen

Wulf leaned elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. Blowing out a deep breath, he paused before lifting his head. "I wish I knew. I just got the contract to be the Face of Draap--worth more money than anything I've done so far. If I try to leave, I won't work at all. If I stay with him-- You have no idea what an ass this guy is. I can't prove it, but now..." He swept a hand through his hair. "I should be able to coast the rest of my life off money I get modeling."

  Trink and Yvan listened.

  "My investments have all been in places my agent advised before I knew he was dirty. Now I find out he cranked me for most of it." He held out his hands. "I'm broke. Haven't made a lick on what I invest. It sits there, gathers dust. Not getting interest."

  "Not that I like the law, but you sure they can't help?"

  "Trink, I wish they could. This guy has connections and family all over the empire. Hell, he gives the Harbinger a run for his money, power-wise."

  Trink gave Yvan a glance. Yvan nodded. "I think the Man might help."

  "No." Wulf gave a half-hearted chuckle that fizzled at the end and came out a squeak. "No way."

  "He's our friend, bro. If we ask him, the Man'd step in. We're tight, you know?" Trink held up two fingers together.

  Wulf choked on a laugh. He tilted the chair and leaned his head back. The moth in the light overhead had stopped fluttering. Trapped at the source of everything he sought. Just like him. One of the top ten models in the empire, and helpless to get himself free.

  "Wulf." Trink and Yvan both leaned against the front of the desk to face him. "Let us help you, bro. We can call the Man. I know he's got the power. Hell, he owns everything on Kelthia and half of Tarth. This whole district owes him."

  "Thanks, guys, but there's got to be another way." He dusted off his pants. "I should go." When he stood, Trink took hold of his arm.

  "What is it, Wulf? What you not tawkin', huh? Me and Yvan." He gestured among them. "You know we got your back. You can tell us anything."

  "Thanks, Trink." He situated himself so he wasn't being touched, hopefully smoothly enough not to offend. "Don't want to talk about it."

  Yvan started to speak.

  "Guys." Wulf held up both hands. "I appreciate the advice and the offer to help, but the last thing I want is to involve Luc Saint-Cyr. The Harbinger, the Man, whatever you want to call him. If I'd known you'd suggest anything that had to do with him, I never would've come here. No offense." He ducked around Yvan.

  The taller man leaned a hand against the door to block him, then swung around and leaned against it, arms folded.

  Wulf sighed. "Don't do this, Yvan."

  "Doin' nothing, bro. Jes standin'. Whyn't you talk to Trink?"

  "Yeah, bro." Trink spread both hands. "Let us help."

  Pressing his lips together, Wulf concentrated on breathing through his nose, focusing on a dark spot on the wall.

  "Listen, Wulf," Trink dropped his street voice. "If you let that asshole fuck you like this you'll kick yourself for it."

  He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. "Back off, Trink."

  "People always say that to me, Wulf, but truth is I can't. I'm your friend. Friends help friends."

  Wulf leveled his gaze on the man's face. "I appreciate your concern, but I'll handle it."

  Yvan tilted his head. "We're trying to help you."

  "Thank you. Really. Thank you." Wulf tucked his fingertips into the front pockets of his jeans. "Now back off and let me out of here."

  Yvan stared into his eyes for a long moment, not blinking any more than Wulf. "After you tell me one thing."

  Wulf ground his teeth together. "What?"

  "Why you so dead set against the Man's help?"

  "His help?" Wulf pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "I would rather die than ask that fucker's help."

  You'd have thought he'd blasphemed. Trink crossed himself and Yvan slid aside like he expected a lightning strike.

  "You think I'm crazy? How's this? If Luc Saint-Cyr was on fire, I wouldn't cross the street to piss on him."

  Their mouths dropped open.

  "You want to know why I hate, loathe, and detest Luc Saint-Cyr? When I was ten years old"-- Wulf slammed one fist into the other "--he made me watch my father die."

  Chapter Two

  Tarth City, Di Lusso District

  Nizamrak Building, Suite 4100, For Women Only Corporate Headquarters

  Sumertsag 20

  "Excuse me, sir."

  His concentration broken for the fifth time in as many minutes, Luc Saint-Cyr tossed aside his reading and leaned back in his desk chair. "Now what?"

  The sixth person he'd hired this month to replace his former assistant stepped all the way inside, shut the door quietly, and approached his desk.

  "I'm very sorry, sir. I know you didn't want to be disturbed for the next hour, but--"

  He held up a hand to stop further apology. "What is it, Ms. Mead?"

  "The gentleman on the holophone says it's urgent."

  "They all say that."

  "Sir, I know that. I'm a professional, but this --"

  "Never mind." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Who is it and what's so urgent?"

  "All he would say was that his name was Wulf Gabriel and that--"

  "What!" Luc shot to his feet, making the woman gasp, and sending his chair flying backward into the credenza. Books on its top tumbled to the floor. "Why didn't you say so?" He made shooing motions at the startled woman. "Put him through immediately."

  Eyeing him as if he were some wild animal, Ms. Mead edged out the door and snapped it shut behind her.

  Once alone, Luc opened a desk drawer and swept everything on his desk into it. He stepped one foot into the adjoining bathroom, grabbed a brush, and dragged it through his short hair. A quick feel of his chin told him he didn't need a shave yet.

  He slipped back into his office, seated himself at the desk, and waited for the image to glow into existence. Wonder what he'll look like? Stupid question, old boy. You see him every day on Imperinet. He's on half the dentist ads in the empire, and most of the clothing commercials.

  Luc shut his eyes, envisioning the classic beauty of Wulf's face, the strength of his jaw, the warm whiskey brown of his eyes. On his dresser at home was a picture of himself with Wulf and his parents, taken days before Thomas Gabriel's death. Before all their lives had unraveled. Before he'd--

  Focus.

  Luc unclenched his fists and flattened his hands on the desk. Still no holo-image. The heap of untidy books on the floor drew his attention, but judging by the angle holopics usually took, Wulf wouldn't see them. How would it appear if the call started and he was on his knees on the floor with his ass in the air? Still... Luc rolled his chair back and pushed them out of sight with his foot.

  No image yet.

  Luc started to press the button on his desk to call Ms. Mead, but hovered one finger above it. What if she was putting Wulf through and mangled the connection because he distracted her?

  He folded his hands again, and waited. On the floor by the right front leg of the credenza lay another book. He scooted his chair over and pushed at it with his foot, but it wedged itself between the legs and wouldn't budge.

  The indicator on his desk still showed no sign of a call.

  He loosened his collar, flicked at a speck of dust on the desk, and folded his hands once more. He rolled his thumbs around and around each other. He tightened his collar back up. Muttering curses, he got down on the floor and straightened the damned books, dusted himself off and sat back down.

  The door opened and Ms. Mead crept far enough inside to shut it behind her. Head down, hands clutched in front of her, she wet her lips.

  Luc stood and went around the desk. "You lost him! Don't tell me you lost him!"

  "No, sir." Ms. Mead peeked up as he approached. "He told me to forget it. He said he'd changed his mind and it wasn't important."

  Wasn't important... Brought up short by those words, Luc went so still the motes of du
st in the air came into perfect clarity. As if the universe had suffered as harsh a blow as his heart. The first contact he'd had with Wulf in twenty years and it wasn't important.

  He turned his back, shoulders rigid, jaw tight. "Did he say he'd call back?"

  "Um, he..."

  His breath felt shallow and too, too fast. He stopped himself from turning his head. "Go on, Ms. Mead."

  She cleared her throat. "No, sir. The call came in on a private channel. I couldn't get a number to return it. I asked, but he wouldn't give me one. I was trying to track it when I realized I should let you know what happened. I'm sorry, sir."

  He jammed his tongue against his teeth. Hands clenched at his sides, Luc turned his face enough to show he listened.

  "I'll make sure he goes straight through if--I mean, when he calls back. Is there anyone else I should know about?"

  You mean is there anyone else who could tear apart my life just by dropping a call? Not trusting his voice, he shook his head.

  Behind him, the door opened, clicked shut. Footsteps receded. No outside noise intruded. The lonely silence of the oversized room rang in his ears like a death scream.

  Luc staggered the ten steps to the windows overlooking Tarth City Park. Sunlight's radiant caress warmed and soothed his skin.

  If only it could reach his heart.

  Focus, Luc. Dwell here, not in the past. Let it go. Let it go.

  Forty-one stories below lay the verdant trees of the park, the blue and silver flash of Typhin River ribboning its way through open grass in the center. Destine Pietan Stadium's dome shone holy-white in the glaring sun. Columns of soaring buildings wrapped along the curved route of the Stadium Loop edging the park.

  That's it. Root yourself in the here and now. Yesterday's gone. Tomorrow never comes. Not for you.

  A tap sounded at the door. By the time it opened, Luc stood straight, back unbending. When his assistant came up beside him, he did nothing to acknowledge her.

  "I finally traced the call to its source, Mr. Saint-Cyr. I thought you'd want to know where it originated."

  It didn't matter where. His promise to Wulf meant he would never seek him; never interfere in his life.

  When he didn't respond, she continued. "It's apparently some kind of restaurant over in the Kelthian District. Have you ever heard of Batchelors? Oh, what am I thinking? Of course not. You'd never go to--"

  Luc gripped her arm. "Where did you say?"

  She looked down to where he held her.

  He let go. "Where did you say he was?"

  "Batchelors. It's in the--"

  "I know where it is." Trink and Yvan's place. Luc rubbed his chin. If Wulf had called from there... He took the woman's arms in both his hands and leaned down closer. "Thank you."

  She blinked and swallowed. "You're welcome, sir."

  He patted his pockets, ensuring he had personal items. "I hired you away from my competitor. How strict are you about non-disclosure of their secrets?"

  She gasped. "Oh sir, I would never--"

  "Good. You've learned one of mine. My interest in Wulf Gabriel never leaves this room. It is not something to share at lunch with friends or your spouse at dinner."

  "Mr. Saint-Cyr!" She drew herself up to her full height, about the middle of his chest. "I am a professional."

  "Glad to hear it. Handle any of my afternoon appointments you can and clear the rest." He strode toward the door. "If you hear from Wulf, transfer the call to my mobile number." He turned back. "And if you transfer anyone else to me for any reason whatsoever, you're fired. Is that clear?"

  Ms. Mead's face lit up as if he'd given her a present. "Oh yes, sir. As glass."

  He jerked open the door.

  * * * *

  Tarth City, Kelthian District

  Batchelors

  Although he'd loaned Trink and Yvan money for this place and been paid both early and handsomely for his trouble, Luc had never personally visited. Now, as he took in the manicured storefronts and immaculate streets, he saw why his advisors had promised the investment would return well. Ideal location for a restaurant. Less than a block from Tarth Technical College and its thousands of hungry students, right across the street from a tube train station and one block in either direction to both the Imperial and Kelthian business districts.

  Inside on the left, a separate bar with dark leather. To the right sprawled a tasteful restaurant elegant enough for fine dining. Not full yet, but a lunch crowd was gathering. The faint scent of beef and onions made his stomach growl. Yvan's cooking still impressed.

  A young woman in a crisp black and white suit greeted him. "Welcome to Batchelors, sir. May I seat you alone, or are you with a party?"

  "Alone." He removed his dark glasses and tucked them into an inside pocket. "In the back, please."

  The greeter's reaction was mild when she saw his eyes. Most flinched and averted their gaze, but she smiled. "This way, Mr. Saint-Cyr." She led him to a choice table at the rear.

  It didn't surprise him that he'd been recognized. Through either the Thieves' Guild or Lucsondis and its various enterprises, he'd been at the forefront of the news on Tarth for a solid decade.

  After taking his drink order, she activated the holographic menu on the table and left him alone.

  Trink delivered the drink personally. "Your Kelthian whiskey, neat. Compliments of the house." He lowered the tray and his voice. "I was hoping you'd come. I didn't expect you this fast."

  Luc indicated the opposite seat.

  Trink slid into it. "Wulf made me promise I wouldn't get involved and that I wouldn't call you."

  "I see." Luc tasted the whiskey. "This is excellent. What makes you think my visit here has anything to do with someone named Wulf?"

  The man's eyebrows twisted in different directions. "I called your office seventeen minutes ago, said I was Wulf Gabriel, hung up, and here you are. First time I've seen you in two years."

  A point for you. Luc nodded in acknowledgment. "How do you know Wulf?"

  "His agent suggested he attend our grand opening and he brought ten other models with him, a bunch of friends and one jackass lover who broke up with him right before we closed shop. Wulf was so torn up, Yvan and I took him upstairs and let him talk our ears off. He slept at our place for three days so he could avoid the guy. We've been tight ever since."

  Luc stroked the lip of the highball glass. "Not that it's my business, but are you lovers?"

  Trink brushed the backs of his fingers under his chin twice. Kelthian street people spoke in slang or with their hands. As the Harbinger, Luc had his own signals, well known on the street. This one meant "up yours" in the most polite sort of way.

  "Why the call, Trink?"

  "Wulf's in trouble."

  Luc stilled himself, listening.

  "When Yvan and I suggested he talk to you he smacked right out. Didn't know we knew you. Said he w--uh, well," Trink rubbed his neck. "Maybe you're better off not knowing what he said."

  He decided against pushing for detail. "You thought I could help him."

  "Yeah." He leaned one elbow on the table. "His agent's screwing him over. Agent's dad runs some kind of vid company Wulf wants to work for, but the guy won't hire him unless he signs with his son for five years. Agent threatened to blackball him. Ripped off his investments. Wulf's damn near broke, the way he tells it. I think there's more, but that's all he'd admit."

  Luc sat back. "Any and all of those things are easily remedied. If Wulf wants my help."

  "Yeah, well..." Trink aligned two napkins with the infinite precision one gives to a task that delays the delivery of bad news. "He says you made him watch his father die."

  The words struck like a blow to the chest. All these years and he still doesn't understand. He blew out a breath. "I'm sorry that's the way Wulf remembers it."

  "He didn't want me telling you any of this, but I can't stand to see a friend suffer."

  Steepling his fingers, Luc sat back. "Can you get him to meet with me?"<
br />
  "I'll talk to him. Not setting up anything he doesn't know about first. Just so we're clear--Yvan and I owe Wulf. He's brought us more business than we could hope to get on our own, just by showing up and bringing friends." Trink gestured around the room. "Our net worth is six times what it was when we first opened, 'cause of him. I know business. Yvan knows cooking. But Wulf--he knows people."

  Luc would have to talk to his advisors about investing more. "Aside from all this--Have you and Yvan considered other locations?"

  "Sure. But not at the expense of setting up Wulf, if that's what you're getting at."

  "Certainly not. I know a bargain when I see one." Patting his fingertips together, Luc asked, "What made you decide to call?"

  "Wulf made me promise not to talk to you, but I figured that meant he could. So if you thought it was him calling and you came here to see what he wanted..." He shrugged. "I could answer your questions and I wouldn't have called."

  Luc toyed with the drink. "I appreciate your tactics but I would have kept your confidence."

  "Yeah." Trink held the tray against his chest. "But I'd know that I called."

  He lowered one brow. "You did call."

  "Not technically."

  Luc chuckled. "You are a strange man, Terellee Vandermeer."

  "Smackers!" Trink glanced over his shoulder. "Don't let that name out on the street."

  "Your secret's safe with me." He made a stroking motion on his right upper lip.

  Trink repeated the signal, accepting.

  Luc folded his hands. "I wish I could tell you I will take care of Wulf's situation, but he and I have an agreement. I am not permitted to interfere."

  Mouth open, Trink stared. "Not permitted?"

  "Long story. Perhaps some day I'll tell you." Luc focused on his drink. When hell has long since frozen solid.

  "Couldn't you lean on the agent a little? You know, scare him?"

  "As much as I'd like to, Trink, I'm a man of my word. No matter what occurs, I cannot interfere. And no one is more sorry about that than I."

  "Can I do anything?"

  "No." Luc drained the glass, touched a fingertip to the corner of his mouth. "I wouldn't recommend it." He stood and pushed in the chair.