Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel

by Bera, Ilia

  Coins fill the bags—but not any coins I’ve ever seen. They’re heavy, chunky things, with no inscribed value anywhere on them—just a bunch of blank, useless golden coins. Even it is real gold, it probably isn’t worth much. When my grandma died, my dad took all of her jewellery and sent it to one of those “dollars for gold” services. I think he only got something like forty bucks for all of it.

  In the few stacks of cash, there’s ten grand. Ten thousand measly dollars—half of which was mine to begin with. I went through all that shit for five grand? I almost slept with that creep for a few months’ rent?

  The morning sun begins bleeding into my little apartment. I stash the cash in my closet and return the velvet sacs to the leather messenger bag. I’ve spent enough time and energy with this bum deal. I’m ready to cut my losses and get some sleep.

  I wake up feeling like crap. As my alarm goes off, I try to remember whether I even fell asleep at all. The complete lack of strength in my legs suggests not.

  On my way to work. I stop at the No Hold Gold on Main Street. The twenty-four hour security guard nods his tired head at me as I enter. I nod my tired head back.

  Inside, there’s an old Filipino man working behind a thick pane of glass. Walking in, I expect the place to smell like a bank—that chemical money and leather smell. Instead, it smells like a bottle depot—like cheap beer and sour milk. The Filipino man doesn’t seem to notice the foul odour.

  He stares at the pile of chunky golden coins and scratches the small patch of hair still on his head. He scrapes the pile onto a scale and scribbles some illegible numbers down on a scrap piece of paper.

  “It’s gold, right?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “Hm, yes. There’s gold in there. Not much, but some.” His voice is surprisingly high-pitched, considering how slow he speaks. His face is very expressive. One moment his eyes are wide, and the next, his eyebrows are pinched together. “I can give you five hundred,” he finally says.

  “Five hundred? That’s it? There has to be fifty pounds of gold there.”

  “There’s less than one pound of gold. The rest, I think, is palladium.” Palladium? What the hell is palladium?

  “You’re telling me all of that is only worth five hundred?”

  The Filipino man is silent for a moment. “Value of gold is low right now.” He takes a full five seconds to say the word low. “For us to sell, we have to melt it down. Melting gold is expensive. Then, we take a small rate—just to keep our shop open and to pay the employees. You understand? Five hundred dollars.”

  I leave the No Hold Gold with five hundred dollars cash in my purse.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CARMINE PESCONI

  It’s the middle of the week and there are no reservations booked. Since my shift started, I’ve been sitting at the desk for an hour, and there hasn’t been so much as a passing car on the highway. It’s completely silent, save for the antique clock in the lobby as it strikes midnight and shouts, “Ding-dong!” a noise it makes on the hour, every hour. I sometimes wonder how the hotel stays in business without customers.

  I’m not complaining—especially not tonight. On especially slow nights, like tonight, I will sneak up to one of the empty rooms for a few hours and doze off. The President’s Suite upstairs, that the Pesconis are currently sleeping in, is my go-to room. It has one of those Swedish memory foam mattresses.

  When the hotel isn’t completely empty, like tonight, I sleep in the lobby. There’s a very comfortable chair next to a warm electric fireplace that runs day and night—winter and summer. I figure I can get four solid hours of sleep in and still be up long before anyone else in Ilium.

  So that’s exactly what I do.

  “Lady.” A deep voice pulls me out of my chair-bound slumber.

  Carmine Pesconi looks down on me with a snarling glare. I spring to my feet, despite the fact my heart has stopped beating. “Mr Pesconi! Um, I’m sorry—my apologies. I—I didn’t—”

  “Is this a fucking joke?” he asks. “I called three times. You aren’t picking up because you’re asleep?”

  I take a quick glance at the old antique clock. I’ve only been asleep an hour.

  “I—I’m sorry, Mr Pesconi.” I can hear my heart palpitating against my chest.

  “Is it just me, or is everyone in this redneck town just as useless as you?” His voice is a deafening roar, reverberating in the lobby walls and in my gut. I want to curl up into a ball on the floor, but I’m afraid he would stomp on me like a bug.

  I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

  He lowers his voice from a roar to a growl. “We need towels. Clean towels. The towels in our room smell like stale shit. Who washes the towels?”

  “Who washes the towels?” I repeat, still feeling his voice’s vibrations in my bones. I keep my voice calm and quiet, as if I’m trying to calm an angry watchdog. Easy boy. “Um, the cleaning lady. She’s new. She just started the other—”

  “—I want clean towels.” His voice lowers still, somehow retaining the same gut-wrenching tone as his wall-shaking roar. “If I get one more stale fucking towel, I’m going to be very fucking angry.” Apparently, this is not Carmine Pesconi when he’s angry. “You understand clean, right, darling? I don’t want to be dealing with this shit. We have an early morning tomorrow.” The word ‘darling’ converts all my fear into rage.

  I scurry back to the front desk where we keep a small stash of clean towels. He snatches them out of my hand. Before turning to leave, he reaches over the desk and snatches a water bottle.

  He takes a swig from the bottle. “Useless fucking woman,” I hear him mutter as he ascends the steps.

  I really hope there is cyanide in that bottle.

  Darling. The word alone is enough to make me shudder and gag; it seems to be reserved only for the scummiest pricks.

  I’ll never be able to sleep on duty ever again. If my brain starts associating sleep with that snarling crimson face, I’ll be lucky if I can ever sleep again.

  Returning to my seat at the front desk, I discover a new text message on my phone from one of my regular clients.

  “What do you have?” she asks simply.

  I message her back, listing the few items I salvaged from James’s warehouse.

  She replies promptly. “Anything else? Looking for something different.”

  Different?

  The black crocodile leather bag with the golden BV logo—the woman on the bus called it different. I don’t know who that woman was, or where to find her, but it just so happens that there’s someone else with the same mysterious crocodile leather bag—and she probably owns plenty of different.

  “I might have something. When do you need it?” I text.

  “Tomorrow night. Let me know ASAP.”

  According to the staff schedule, Kyung-Sook Seonwoo is the next person on duty. “Kyung-Sook Seonwoo?” I say under my breath before realizing it’s the new girl—the little Korean maid who comes in every night to see if her paycheque is ready. She starts at seven.

  Sorry Kyung. It’s nothing personal.

  As the antique clock’s short hand reaches six, the Pesconis descend the staircase into the lobby. Carmine is dressed in a black pinstriped suit, and his wife must have thirty pounds of fur draped over her shoulders. I take a quick glance down at her shoes—a pair of strappy white heels with no recognizable markings.

  Neither Carmine nor his wife reply to my “Good morning” as they pass. Though Carmine does reach behind my desk to grab a water bottle—an invasive quirk that’s growing old fast. Aside from Carmine’s snarling glare, they don’t even acknowledge my existence. I watch them hurry through the rain towards their car. The red glow from their car’s taillights fill the lobby before they turn out from the parking lot, onto the highway.

  I have one hour before Kyung-Sook’s shift is due to start—one hour to find something different for my client.

  And different is exactly what I find—nothing but different.
I don’t recognize the name of a single designer, but there’s no doubting it’s all made from expensive and genuine materials. The only logo I do recognize is that golden BV. The inscription under the logo reads, ‘Beaunelle Vianna.’ Beaunelle Vianna? Never heard of it—but that doesn’t make it any less gorgeous.

  Stuffing what I can into my bag, I know that my client is going to be very happy with her options. I take a peek inside of one of the porosus handbags and discover a handful of familiar, chunky coins. Upon closer inspection, I realize some of the coins are gold, some are brass, and others are silver. Looking closer even, I notice there are two different shades of gold—a yellowish gold and a whiteish gold. I leave the coins behind, but I take the bag.

  The bag is for me.

  There’s one thing I want to do before I leave. In the bathroom is a large bottle of bronzing lotion—the true source of Carmine’s orange hue. I twist off the lid and I leave a large gob of spit as a little gift.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MEETINGS WITH A CLIENT

  My client’s name is Terri. I don’t know her last name; she’s smart enough to keep that a secret.

  She’s a high-class prostitute—one of very few in Ilium. She only sleeps with the richest and most powerful, and she makes a ton of money doing it. I know she makes good money because she spends it all on clothes. She’s a shopping addict; the kind of prostitute that wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a white shirt, or walking the streets of Ilium’s warehouse district. The trademark of her impeccable style is her red lipstick—a deep, rich red. I have dreams about that lipstick. I’ve always told myself: one day, I will wear that same shade of lipstick. Unlike Terri, I don’t have the guts. Lipstick like that demands an elite level of confidence. Without confidence, you’ll end up looking like a rodeo clown.

  Terri finds her clients where I find mine—where I found her—at the Holiday Inn. Not in the lounge, of course, and not in the hotel, either.

  Few people know that Ilium's Holiday Inn is a front for the biggest criminal hangout in town. To find the secret hangout, you take the back service door, from the alley behind the hotel. There, you’ll find a long staircase. Down those stairs is a door and a doorman. If he decides you’re okay, you’ll be let into a large basement bar, filled with bootleggers, drug runners, prostitutes, and arms dealers—not to mention all of the wealthy men and women looking for bootleggers, drug runners, prostitutes, and firearms.

  In a text message, Terri suggests we meet at the Holiday Inn, but I’m hesitant to agree. The last time I was in that underground bar, I went home with Freddie. As far as I know, Freddie’s been waiting for me there since he woke up on that motel floor.

  “See you there,” I reply. If Freddie is looking for me, he won’t be staked out on a Wednesday afternoon, or so I’ve convinced myself. But when one of the passengers on the bus notices my trembling hands and asks if I’m okay, I realize I never convinced myself anything.

  I’m relieved to find the hidden bar empty, save for a few bar regulars and two chatting prostitutes, one of whom happens to be my client, Terri. Also sitting in the bar is a man who never leaves: Lawrence.

  Lawrence is a short man, the shortest man I know. There’s a solid possibility he’s the shortest man in the town of Ilium. His baldhead, his awkward slouch, and his oversized clothes don't help his small stature. Lawrence is a drug dealer with no boss and no employees. Everyone knows him, everyone knows he’s a compulsive gambler, and everyone knows that he always sits in the same spot at the bar, talking to no one but bookies and those looking for a hook-up. He sells everything: pot, coke, speed, ex, toast, crack, K; you name it, Lawrence sells it.

  Everyone knows not to sit in the seat next to Lawrence, unless they plan on buying. Now, a vaguely familiar bug-eyed kid, no older than sixteen, occupies the seat, buying a sheet of acid from the miniature drug dealer. It takes me a moment to place him. His name is Peter Irons. His single mother lives in my apartment building, across the hall from me. She’s even more bug-eyed than Peter, with scabs all over her arms from god-knows how many heroin benders.

  Standing in the doorway, scanning the faces of everyone in the bar to make sure Freddie’s isn’t one of them, I notice Terri waving me over. She nudges the empty chair in front of her with one of her heeled feet.

  “Liv, sweetheart, how are you doing? Tell me everything. Liv, this is Mandy. Have you two met? Olivia is the one who sold me this darling dress. It’s Dolce and Gabbana,” Terri says with her seemingly never-ending cigarette between her fingers.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Terri’s friend, Erica, says. She reaches her hand out to me. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Really?” I ask, taking her hand, which is bony and light, like the rest of her body. She has a beautiful face, but she’s in desperate need of some bodyweight.

  “What’s wrong, dear? What are you looking around for?” Terri asks.

  “Huh? Nothing.” I snap my head back to Terri and make a conscious effort to keep my gaze glued to her.

  “I’ve never seen you so jumpy,” she says.

  “Am I jumpy?”

  “I hope you don’t mind my bringing Erica along. We’ve got a gig together tonight. One of the regulars is feeling extra kinky.”

  “Right—no worries,” I say. Knowing Terri, I can’t begin to imagine what that regular’s bill is going to look like.

  “Long story short, we need some new digs—something special for the naughty little fellow.” Terri and Erica both laugh.

  “Well, I think I have what you’re looking for.” I place my bag on the table and pull everything out.

  Erica picks up and inspects a short, black dress. “Lavallette?” she reads slowly. “What is all of this?”

  “They’re new designers. Very high in demand right now,” I say. I’ve never heard of Lavallette either.

  “Max Vettore?” Terri says, reading the sole of a black-heeled shoe.

  “Especially Vettore,” I say. I’ve never heard of Max Vettore.

  Terri stands up and tries one of the black shoes on. “Oh, I like it. It’s a bit big. Do you have other sizes?”

  “No—what you see is what I have.”

  “I can always stuff the toe,” she says.

  “How much for the dress?” Erica asks.

  “Three-fifty.”

  “Three-fifty? It’s used,” Erica says. She looks at me with narrowed eyes. I hold my eye-contact.

  “You’re holding a four-thousand-dollar handmade Lavallette dress. You’d be lucky to find one used for three thousand.”

  “This is worth four grand?” Erica says, looking back at the dress, her eyes widening back out.

  “On sale,” I say.

  “The shoes?” Terri asks.

  “A pair of Max Vettore heels? A grand.”

  “A thousand dollars? Jesus, Liv—you’re supposed to be saving me money.”

  “A grand is nothing. Those shoes are worth more than my car.” She doesn’t know that I don’t have a car. “You wanted different, this is different. I can go home and get the Gucci and Versace is you’d prefer.”

  “No, sweetheart—this is good. This is great,” Terri says, looking back at the shoes and clothes on the table.

  Behind me, I hear the bar door open. I’m tempted to look back, but I refrain. Maintain eye-contact or break the illusion. Freddie isn’t here, and he’s not going to show up.

  Behind Terri is the centerpiece of the establishment: a raised cage, ten by ten feet, with a cement slab as a floor, still stained with Hannibal Hugo’s dried blood.

  My hands tremble under the table. “Think it over. I’ll be right back,” I say, standing up and heading to the bathroom.

  Terri and Erica are too occupied obsessing over the clothes to notice me leave. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and look myself in the mirror. There’s no way he’s going to show his face in this place. I wasn’t the only person he ripped here. Sure, maybe he is out looking for me, but there are probably a dozen an
gry gangsters out looking for him, gangsters who hang around this very bar.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IRISH COFFEE

  I was standing right here, right where I stand now, staring myself in the mirror, not an hour before I was in bed with the most disgusting human on the planet. Stashed away in my purse was every penny I had to my name, my whole life in a Louis Vuitton bag—less than a hundred bucks. My heart was still pounding from the big bust at James’s warehouse.

  Making a sale was vital, but it was going to be difficult as I was only able to salvage a couple pairs of shoes and a couple of dresses. I was desperate to cut my losses—at least enough to afford rent, and survive another month.