Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel

by Bera, Ilia

  “I like a girl with spunk. Pretty eyes, long hair, big titties—you’re almost my type,” Freddie says.

  He waits for me to question his almost. I could care less, and it takes him far too long to realize it.

  He’s already laughing before the punch line. “You’re a bit fatter than I’d prefer.”

  My spit lands on target, directly between the prick’s eyes. His grin never leaves his face. If anything, it just revs him up even more.

  “She knows what I like.” Freddie nudges Mel with his elbow. “I’ll give ‘er that much!” Mel looks less impressed—impatient, ready to be done with this nonsense, just like me. Also like me, he seems to be over Freddie’s predictable comedy.

  I wait for Freddie to calm down before saying, “Fuck you.”

  “Last chance, beautiful. Where’re the coins?” Again, Freddie pushes his cool blade against my throat.

  Bzzz!

  We all look to the buzzer-box next to my apartment door. My guardian angle is downstairs, ringing my apartment.

  “Who’s that?” Mel asks.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CAPTURE & ESCAPE

  Freddie sighs, his fist still clenching his knife against my throat. “Expecting company?” he asks.

  I don’t respond with anything more than another shrug.

  “Well, darlin’?”

  Bzzz!

  I remain silent.

  “Goddammit,” Freddie mutters. “Alright—you’re goin’ to answer the door, and tell your friend that you’re busy. Got it? Don’t try anythin’ sneaky, ‘cause it won’t work. I promise, it won’t work.”

  Bzzz!

  “Answer it,” Freddie says, relieving the pressure of his blade from my throat.

  I press the talk-button on my buzzer and take a deep breath. “Hello?”

  There’s no answer. Freddie and Mel stand motionless, silent. Their eyes are wide and their grins are gone. Suddenly, it’s serious business—the joking around is over.

  “Hello?” I say again, now silently begging for a response. Why won’t my guardian angle speak? “Who’s there? Hello?”

  “I have a package for an Olivia Marie Kross?” an unfamiliar male voice crackles through my buzzer. No one in Ilium knows my full name—no one’s ever known my full name except for my parents, but I can’t imagine they’re sending too many packages from beyond the grave. My guardian angle doesn’t even know my full name.

  “Buzz them up and act normal. Understand?” Freddie says. Freddie and his precious coins have become the least of my concerns. I’m not afraid of Freddie. Freddie is all bark, no bite. I am afraid of Carmine Pesconi.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “I’m not expecting a package.” My body is rigid.

  Bzzz! Mel reaches for the door-button on my buzzer but grab his wrist.

  Freddie’s smirk returns to his face. “Do ya make lots of enemies?” he asks, hovering his finger over the door-button. “How’s this for a deal: Ya give me my coins and I don’t press this button.”

  “I don’t have your coins.”

  “Then I press the button.” Freddie licks his lips as if he’s discovered my weakness. He’s too stupid to understand that, pressing that button means him facing the thug downstairs, too.

  “Wait,” I say. Freddie keeps his finger over the button. “They’ll kill me if you let them up here.”

  “That’s the idea, darlin’.”

  “They’ll kill me and you’ll never get your dumb coins.”

  “So ya do know where my coins are?”

  “I never said that I didn’t.”

  Bzzz!

  “Goddammit,” Freddie says, slamming the wall with his fist.

  “Think she’s bluffing?” Mel asks.

  Crash! There is a splintering thud downstairs, followed by flurry of heavy footsteps.

  “Ya got a back door by any chance?” Freddie asks.

  “I’m on the third floor.”

  “Window it is,” he says, grabbing my wrist and leading me towards the kitchen. Mel opens the window and looks down. “Hurry up,” he says.

  Mel fearlessly hops out, grabbing onto the window ledge and lowering himself down before letting go, dropping six meters, and landing on his feet in the alleyway. One thing I learned in my gang days is, you don’t fall three-stories and land comfortably on your feet. How the hell did Mel do that?

  “I’m goin’ to lower ya down. Mel will catch ya.” Freddie says.

  “You’re kiddin’, right?”

  “Hurry up,” Mel shouts from the alley.

  “C’mon,” Freddie says, grabbing my arm. I resist as light-headedness washes over me. “Climb out.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “I’m getting’ those territs back. You’re climbin’ out the fuckin’ window. Let’s go.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The mystery intruders have reached my apartment. The shadows of their impatient feet creep below my door. “Open up!” a muffled voice calls out before another series of dull thuds. Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Out the window. Now.” Freddie pushes me against the window ledge. The alley below is blurry, spinning. My legs and arms tremble, overcome with weakness. “Now!” Freddie says again.

  “I can’t.” I barely have the strength to wipe the tears from my eyes.

  “Ah, for fuck sakes.” Freddie pulls me away from the window and tosses me into the closet. “Stay quiet,” he says, taking off his shirt and pants. “Not a word, get it?”

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “This shit isn’t ventice, and it wasn’t cheap, either.”

  “Ventice?”

  He ignores me. The word ‘ventice’ is not a part of my vocabulary. A pair of skivvies away from being completely naked, Freddie drops his clothes at my feet—along with his pocketknife.

  “What’s ventice?” I ask again.

  “What did I just say about keepin’ it shut?” He slams the door in my face.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I’m blind, defenceless, save for Freddie’s dinky pocket knife. I listen to Freddie’s bare feet patter across the kitchen, towards the front door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah! I’m comin’, already!” he calls out.

  I can hear the heavy metallic sheath of the deadbolt from my small, dark closet.

  “Who are you?” an unfamiliar voice asks. He’s got a New Yorker accent.

  “Me? Who the hell are you? What’s goin’ on? Hey—what are ya doin’?” Freddie says. The small parade of heavy boots enters my apartment.

  “Where’s Olivia Kross?”

  “I think she went to work. I just woke up. What’s up with the guns?”

  “Who are you? The boyfriend?”

  I can hear Freddie laugh, as if it’s such a ludicrous suggestion. He would be lucky to be my boyfriend. “Boyfriend? Nah,” he says.

  “So what are you doing, sleeping in her apartment?”

  “Well, between you and me, Liv’s a lively girl. Let’s just say, she’s a big fan of what I’m packin’, if you know what I mean. And hey—I’m only human. Can’t say no to the pair she’s got on ‘er.”

  “Go look around,” the unfamiliar voice says.

  “She’s not here,” Freddie replies.

  “Don’t move. You wait here.”

  “Really. She ain’t here.”

  A pair of heavy boots pass the closet. In my bedroom, one of the men riffles through my things, slamming every dresser drawer, and flipping every piece of furniture.

  “Anything?” one man calls out.

  “Bedroom’s empty!” another calls back.

  “I told ya, she’s not ‘ere,” Freddie says.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  The apartment becomes silent. I wipe the sweat from my trembling palms. Given their New Yorker accents, it’s safe to assume they’re Pesconi’s men.

  “Check that closet.”

  “That’s just a pantry.”r />
  “I said, shut up.”

  A pair of booted feet stop and block the light beneath the closet door. I grab onto the inside handle and hold it tight before the man on the other side turns his end. He gives it a tug. “It’s locked,” the goon says. My slippery hands tremble.

  “A locked pantry?”

  “What’s this all about, anyway?” Freddie asks.

  “It’s none of your fucking business, Fabio—what the fuck?”

  One of the men screams. The man at the closet door fumbles backwards, letting go of the handle.

  “What the fuck?” one of the New York-accented men yells. “Where’d he go?”

  Bang! Bang!

  Deafening gunshots reverberate through the old apartment’s walls. I grab the door handle with both hands and hold it tight with all of my strength, leaning backwards to add the weight of my body.

  My palms are slick with sweat and the metallic handle starts to slip out from my grasp. The trembling in my hands is now a full-blown shaking.

  Thud! Bang!

  Another scream—another loud thud. The apartment falls silent save for the rattling of the door handle in my shaking hands.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NOW LEAVING ILIUM, COME BACK SOON!

  Two feet stop at the foot of the doorway. The man on the other end grabs the handle. I try to hold the door shut, but my sweaty palms do nothing to stop the handle from turning. Freddie, still in nothing but his underwear, stands with a smirk in the doorway.

  On the floor behind him is a dark-haired man in a black overcoat, facedown in a puddle of his own blood. I repress the inexplicable desire to jump into Freddie’s arms.

  “Let’s go,” he says, reaching into the closet and grabbing my arm. He pulls me with force, nearly dislocating my shoulder. He doesn’t bother to redress. Instead, he scoops up the pile of his clothes and slaps them against my chest. “Hold these, will ya?” he says, pulling me through my apartment.

  There are three dead men in my apartment, all dark-haired and dressed in black overcoats. Blood has been sprayed and spattered all over my doors, cupboards, furniture, and windows, and there’s still smoke billowing out from the fresh bullet holes in my walls. One of the dead men is face up. Across his face are long, deep, bloody gashes. Freddie doesn’t have a drop of blood on his bare body.

  He tugs my arm again. “Don’t stop,” he says.

  What the hell’s going on? What happened to these men? “How did you kill them? What happened to them?”

  Another sharp tug at my arm nearly knocks me on my feet. “Come on,” Freddie demands, practically dragging me out from my apartment, past my front door into the corridor. The eyes of my neighbours peer through doors held slightly ajar. They all watch with curiosity and a good deal of confusion as I’m dragged by a half-naked male-model towards the stairway. As my eyes meet theirs, they recede into their apartments like frightened church mice.

  Freddie leads me out of my building and pulls me towards the alley that Mel dropped into. The distant screaming of sirens is clear but the red and blue lights are still invisible. I had Freddie’s switchblade in the closet with me, not that a switchblade can leave gashes like that. Those gashes weren’t from any blade; they looked like an animal’s claw marks.

  Revved up and waiting for us is a magenta ’69 Cadillac Coupe DeVille—a monstrosity of a car—with a beige fabric roof, lowered suspension, gold rims, and a golden naked-lady hood ornament. Mel sits behind the red and black zebra-print steering wheel. Freddie opens the back door and throws me in before hopping in next to me. The upholstery is ripped is more places than I care to count and foam billows out from the many abrasions. Some getaway car the idiots are driving; unless they plan on driving through a circus, we aren’t going to blend in with shit.

  The car jolts forward with a loud groan before I’m able to sit upright. The old car’s tires screech, kicking up gravel and mud as we fishtail from side to side. Thanks to the lowered suspension, every little bump feels like we’re driving over a gaping pothole. I’m already feeling nauseous before the end of the alleyway.

  Just as red and blue flashing lights tease the rear-view mirror, we squeal around the corner, onto the street, onto smooth pavement. Now wearing pants, Freddie lights a cigarette.

  “You’ve got some powerful enemies, lady,” Freddie says, blowing out a lungful of smoke.

  Mel slows the old Cadillac down in a stupid attempt to blend into the Ilium traffic. The door handle is within arm’s reach and the latch is up—unlocked. I can pull the handle, jump, tuck, and roll. There are plenty of people out on the street. I can scream for help. Maybe I can get put into some sort of witness protection program. Now’s my chance—Freddie is looking out his window and Mel is looking forward.

  I take a deep breath and pull the handle, throwing my body weight against the door. It doesn’t budge.

  “Door’s broken,” Freddie says with a snicker. He doesn’t even look over at me. “Been stuck for years now.”

  Now leaving Ilium. Come back soon!

  The row of apartment buildings that hug Ilium’s city limit shrinks in the rear-view mirror, vanishing into a haze of rainfall and exhaust from the rattily old Cadillac.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  Freddie pulls a strip of cloth out from the seat pocket. “Turn your head,” he says before covering my eyes with the cloth. “Do I have to tie up your hands, or will you leave it alone?”

  “I’ll leave it,” I say grudgingly. He tightens the cloth with a swift tug. Fifteen minutes ago, I was getting ready to go to the bus depot, getting ready to start a new life. Now, I’m the prisoner of two thick-skulled, violent goons.

  “You’ll go home when I get my territs.”

  There’s that word again. Territs. What are territs? Did I miss the class on territs in high school? I ask him what territs are, and why they’re so important.

  He laughs as if I’m pulling his leg. “Says the person gambling ‘er life to protect ‘em.” Freddie’s overly confident grin is audible in his voice. There is no convincing him that he’s wrong in his assumption. Whatever these territs are, they must be very important—worth more than just their weight in gold—roughly five hundred dollars according to the No Hold Gold.

  I fall onto my side as we turn a corner. Freddie doesn’t bother to warn me, nor does he bother to help me back up. Instead, he laughs some more. As we straight out, the ride is suddenly bumpy, as if we’ve turned onto an old dirt road.

  I could tell him I sold the territs to the No Hold Gold. If they truly were that important to him, I’m sure he would find a way to get them back. He killed three armed gangsters with nothing but a pair of four-leaf clover boxer shorts—knocking over a little Filipino man would be child’s play. Sure, I could tell him, but then what would happen to me? He killed those three men with a grin on his face. As far as I know, he’s a serial killer, some crazed nut job.

  “Just tell me where you hid the territs, and you’re free to go. We’ll even drive ya home, right Mel?”

  “You betcha,” Mel chimes in.

  If it was only so simple.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE CARAVAN

  I’m awoken by an aggressive tug at my arm. “Ow!” I cry, sitting up, looking around. It takes a few seconds of blind panic before I remember being blindfolded. I reach up to pull the cloth away from my eyes, but someone else beats me to it. I wince pre-emptively, expecting the sunlight to burn through my retinas, but there is no blinding sunlight—no light at all.

  Night has fallen. Even Ilium’s polluted glow is nowhere in sight. I can see the stars—a sign that we must be very far from Ilium.

  A black silhouette stands in the doorway, looking down at me, holding the blindfold in one hand. “Get out.” It takes a moment to place the voice, which belongs to Mel. “You okay?” He reaches a hand into the car for me to grab, which I accept.

  “Where are we?” I ask, looking around. I’m in a field, God knows where. The air is
dry; I can’t remember the last time the rain stopped. I spin around, trying to locate Ilium’s artificial glow—or any point of reference. One hundred yards away is a flickering orange light. Emanating from the flickering light is faint laughter, chatter, and music.

  Mel steps behind me, ignoring my question. A cold burn squeezes my wrist. I try to pull my hands away but can’t. They’re stuck together behind my back. Mel grabs my arm, putting an end to my frantic flailing. “Calm down.” He slips a small key into his pocket—the key to the handcuffs that now hold my wrists. He leads me across the dark field. The tall grass brushes against my legs.