Wolf's Bane: Book Three of the Demimonde

by Unknown

  I noticed a big book with spotty gilt edges, the cover having a textured design of knot work bordering the title. I'd seen that book before. Marek had once dumped it into my lap, then told me I was an almighty oracle, redemption of the DV.

  Some redemption I was.

  I flipped open the cover and turned a few pages. The text appeared hand-written. A thousand ancient scholars were probably screaming in their dusty graves because I wasn't wearing cotton gloves. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering why Rodrian had gotten so quiet.

  Rodrian knelt before a tapestry that stretched from floor to ceiling, a frail-looking weaving of castle and mountain and men on horseback, and pushed it aside to reveal a very modern-looking safe. He punched in a series of numbers and I heard the mechanism grind inside.

  "Why did you bother with the combination?" I figured he'd have just DV'd the lock open.

  He cast a wry look over his shoulder. "Marek warded it compulsion-proof. I think he did it just to annoy me."

  I scooped together a pile of strewn newspapers, judiciously avoiding looking at the date, and uncovered a chair. "I would do it just to annoy you, too."

  "I know," he said amiably. He swung the door open and I could hear him shuffling through stacks of paper.

  "What's that stuff, anyway?"

  "Financials, for the most part. Private papers, journals, family records." He pulled out a stack of bound books and set them on the floor, before continuing to root through the safe's contents. "He asked me to finalize some paperwork for him before he… left."

  The leather books caught my attention. "Those are his journals?"

  Rodrian looked down at the floor where they lay. "Some, yes. I think others are in the family vault but these, I think, meant most to him. Why?"

  "Do you suppose…" I bit my lip, unsure how to ask. It felt dirty, as if I were a nasty old lady scavenging through Ebenezer Scrooge's bedclothes.

  The harsh comparison didn't stop my selfish thoughts. Marek's personal journals could hold valuable memories, thoughts, observations he might have shared with me, had there been more time. Denied his presence and his affection, I wanted those books.

  Avarice had nothing to do with it. It was my due. I had loved him too completely to be denied those small things.

  Rodrian picked them up and pushed to his feet. "Sophie, would you like these?"

  Yes, I did. I wanted them with all my being. And even though Rodrian was closer to me than any living soul, even though he was one of the few I trusted and loved, I didn't know how to ask him.

  When he placed them into my trembling hands, I took them the same way my mother had accepted the folded flag that had been draped over my grandfather's casket. He died when I was eight. I remembered how Mom jumped and squeezed her eyes shut when they fired the gun salute. I remembered how Taps seemed to reach inside me, grasp a corner of my soul, and tug it away as the notes wavered into thundering silence. Those images, so clear and so staggering, stole my breath from me now and left me feeling very unworthy and very, very small.

  I poured my essence into my barriers and kept those raw images from Rodrian. If he knew—if he knew, it would be worse.

  "You don't need to ask permission to take anything," he said. "Marek had a will, you know."

  "Oh, no." I wrinkled my nose and swallowed down a stinging sensation. "Not this again."

  "All I'm saying is, he named you beneficiary. I'm sure that under these circumstances the same would hold." Rodrian pulled me to my feet, the books between us; wrapping his arms around me, he pressed his lips to my forehead. "It's okay. We'll preserve the memory of who my brother was and honor him. Take the journals. They are an important aspect of Marek's life."

  His touch was meant to be comforting but I shrugged out of his embrace. It felt too uncomfortable, too wrong, somehow, to be near him here amongst Marek's things. I felt like Marek could see me; I knew he'd disapprove.

  Rodrian knelt at the safe again, pulling several folders out before swinging the heavy door shut and allowing the tapestry to fall into place. He hesitated near the big dusty book, hefting it up and adding it to his pile.

  We journeyed through the grey gloom once more. He took a big black umbrella from the stand near the door before we left, holding it over me as I got back into the TTS.

  Rodrian treated me like a widow. I hated myself for feeling like one.

  We stopped for lunch at Cordula's, although the meal was uncharacteristically small and quiet. At least it was too early for Caen to be on duty. Bonus right there.

  Ever since Marek left, Caen was too nice. And by nice, I mean sinister and gleeful and not the least interested in pretending not to stare at me. I never understood why Rodrian didn't see it, or do something about it. Maybe Caen had been working with Rodrian for so long that it became hard to see flaws, or at least too hard to call Caen out on them.

  When Rodrian's cell phone rang he only glanced at the caller ID before dismissing the call. I didn't have to see the name to know it was Aurelia. His power always took the same twist whenever she appeared.

  Aurelia was Rodrian's mate. Couldn't call her a wife, really, since they never took formal vows. She was, however, the mother of all his children, even if only in terms of genetic ownership; Aurelia was more of a visiting spirit than a reliable partner.

  The last time she'd come to town was the early nineties. She stayed long enough to bring Shiloh into the world before dashing off to a faraway corner of it again. There was probably something to be admired in her strong-willed independent ways. Rodrian absolutely loved her and feared the inevitable moment when she'll disappear from his life again—and that gave me another reason to not like her a whole bunch.

  When she called the third time, Rodrian's power surged so desperately that I shooed him off. "Please, Rode. Take it before she hunts you down."

  "I don't want to be rude—"

  "She's rude enough for both of you. Please."

  He stood up and opened his mouth but I cut him off. "And stop apologizing. I have to make a call anyway."

  He disappeared in the direction of his office, which occupied a corner behind the kitchen. It wasn't at all pleasant like his old office at Folletti's; this one was loud from the kitchen racket, there was always someone in the hallway outside his door, and most days it smelled like the deep fryers. Cordula's was big on fried food.

  As soon as he left, I called my girlfriend Dahlia, who answered just before it went to voicemail. She sounded just as miserable as I did. That made me feel better; at least I didn't have to worry about bringing her down. Being an empath meant I had to wear a happy face and prevent my mental touch from transmitting my real feelings. Some days, it was downright exhausting.

  "What are you doing tonight?" I hoped she'd be willing to come over to watch a movie. I'd even let her pick one of her bloodier war epics, even though I barely made it through the last one we watched together. Saving Private Ryan had a lot less to do with saving than I'd assumed.

  I just didn't feel like being alone and, after today, being alone with Rodrian would still feel like being alone.

  "Toby's made plans, actually," she said. "It's werewolf business."

  Ah. That explained the cloudy undertones to her voice. Dahlia had been adamant that her sweetie Toby join a pack so he could learn how to be the best Were he could be. Kind of like a Cub Scout, I guessed, and only a mild pun intended. But Dahlia was DV, through and through. Even though it was best for Toby, it was still difficult for her to reconcile their different cultures.

  I guessed it was similar to an uneasy marriage of different faiths. Putting the Star of David on top a Christmas tree didn't mean everything blended.

  Dahlia was a tough chick, though, and not one to let a little adversity deter her from what she wanted. She loved Toby and was determined to make everything work. "It shouldn't be that bad. Balaton's packs have arranged for some sort of music festival at the Philly Majestic."

  "So you have to go to a concert? How bad can that
be?"

  "Not bad, if you're Were. I guess you don't want to go with?"

  It had been quite some time since I've seen a live show. I've been so consumed with work and the Sophia and avoiding my issues with Rodrian that I hadn't even thought of a night out. "I suppose. Depends. You know who's playing?"

  She recited a list of local rock bands, names I knew from small posters plastered on city fences and lampposts or mentioned on the radio. But the last one floored me.

  Turn of the Wheel was headlining.

  I must have misheard. "From Germany?"

  "I think that's what he said. I never heard of them."

  I could have spun in place. "You've never heard of Turn of the Wheel? My God. And you've been around longer than I have."

  "Metal's not my speed. I can't believe it's yours, either."

  "Metal's not your speed? What about knives or chains or war hammers?"

  She chuckled. "Music should soothe the savage beast. You know I don't listen to that stuff."

  "Well, nobody said you were perfect. I'm going, right?"

  "I want you to go because I don't want to be by myself but I have serious reservations about it. I don't know if this would be a good place for you."

  "I've ended up in a lot of places that weren't good for me. But if I would get to see this band, who I've never seen live before—" I paused for dramatic significance. "Please don't make me stay home."

  "Did I mention that this is a Were-organized event?" Silly girl. She thought she could convince me to forget about going.

  Normally, it would have worked. "Do they forbid non-Weres?"

  "No, of course not. After all, Toby invited me."

  "And I'm going with you," I said, my voice brighter than six months of summer. "Finally. I get to see Dierk Adeluf sing. Oh, my God. Boots. I need boots."

  "Well, then," she said. "You had better get ready. And I had better change into something more appropriate for saving your ass, should you decide to start trouble."

  "Me? Start trouble?"

  "You're right. You don't start trouble, you attract it. I'll dress for more defense than offense."

  I hung up with a smile, feeling lucky to have a friend who understood me so well. Hopefully, Dahlia's wardrobe wouldn't get us brought up on weapons charges on the way to the show. I'd really hate to miss the band.

  I corrected myself. I'd hate to see the band without her.

  Dahlia wasn't kidding when she said it was a festival. We'd been to the Majestic for shows before but I had never seen the theater this crowded. The three of us stopped for a quick supper and arrived around seven. Dahlia said the first band had gone on around one o'clock in the afternoon, but since the Werekind were only mandated to be present for the last act and subsequent gathering, we could arrive later.

  The Majestic was an old theater that had been converted into a concert hall and, like any good concert hall, the outer rim of the auditorium was lined with bars. After enduring the first set, I thought perhaps there was good reason for it. Metal had changed quite a bit since I was in high school. The rockers were seriously scary-looking, and there was a great deal more growling.

  Or maybe it was a Were thing.

  At nine o'clock, the under-21 crowd was dispelled, and the barriers that had corralled them away from the evils of alcohol were dismantled. By then, the serious fans had begun to assemble.

  I had been prejudiced against werewolves since being introduced to their charms by an assassin named Tanner a few years ago. His "brother" Toby, who had since become my good friend, did a lot to redefine my idea of Were. Still, as I surveyed the crowd I wondered if this was a concert or a biker convention.

  At first, the crowd wasn't too bad. I had room to move my arms, at least. Of the few times that I thinned my barriers, I realized that, while there were a lot of Were, the crowd wasn't completely homogeneous. I detected plenty of humans and, more surprisingly, quite a number of DV.

  I saw no flashing eyes, anywhere. Even people as powerful as the DV knew which crowds were safe and which ones weren't. This one definitely was not safe.

  As the crowd began to fill out with backs broader than barns and more leather than a Harley shop, I realized how many of them looked like wolves. They had dark, hungry looks. They snapped at each other over their shoulders. They barked with hoarse laughter. And all of them wore their pumpkin-colored eyes.

  The full moon was maybe a week past, on its way to a slender crescent. At this point in the moon, the waning pull of power that bled Were eyes from normal to rust would have diminished so I suspected most of them wore them for fun. It was easy to figure out who the humans were—they were the ones wearing uneasy expressions and trying not to stare at the strange, animalistic eyes of the people around them.

  Eventually the crowds became too unbearable. I, in the true spirit of the occasion, wore boots that looked dangerous and sexy but were next to impossible to walk in. When the first surge of crowd lifted me off my feet and threatened to carry me away with it, Dahlia found my hand, tugged me out of the mass of people, and motioned we should go upstairs.

  A door in the foyer led to a side stairwell, an old metal thing that clanked like a fire escape when we climbed it. Our destination was the upper balcony; it was generally off-limits but I had floating permission to sit up there. The DV who ran the theatre knew the Sophia didn't like crowds.

  Although this was a Were event, this balcony had plenty of DV guard patrolling it. The Majestic was owned by the DV and, although they were cool about letting the Were use the venue, their generosity didn't extend to letting them have free reign. Along the walls behind the lighting crews were dark shapes, the flash of bright eyes, and the glint of firearms. I hoped tonight would not be the night their services were needed.

  Dahlia and I slid between the rows and made our way to the front of the balcony, and I perched on the edge of the seat, gripping the railing and feeling like I would burst with anticipation. The stage was dark, and shadows moved equipment from one side to the other. Soon.

  And then over the crowds I detected an ethereal hum, growing louder, keyboards that expanded into a winding melody. Most of the crowd fell silent and still, turning one by one to face the stage. Dark figures took their places on the shadowy stage, evoking cries and whistles from the crowd.

  Then, a voice. I closed my eyes and smiled, as a surge of recognition and pleasure flooded me. I knew that voice.

  That voice wound itself around the music, a handsome tenor. A glow like approaching dawn grew behind the stage, and the silhouette of a man showed against the back screen. The music built, the voice built, and when they both peaked, the veil dropped.

  Dierk Adeluf, standing atop a dais, spread his arms wide. The audience received him as a god.

  Guitars and drums and keys joined his voice in harmony and contrast, a tidal wave of sound that crashed into me, leading into a song I've sung along with for fifteen years. I forgot everything else except the man on the stage. For the first time, my troubles and my trials melted into the background, all but forgotten.

  Dierk Adeluf was thirty-nine and in the prime of his life. He wore a grey button-down shirt open over a black tee, black jeans, black shoes. His brown hair, shoulder-length and straight, fell back from his brow. Simple. Nothing glamorous, no leather or war paint, just man. Man, and his extraordinary voice.

  I spent the next hour in a dream-like state. Dahlia could have spontaneously combusted and I probably would have missed the whole thing unless my sleeve accidentally caught fire. I didn't even look at her until after the show, the bows, and the encore. By then, Toby had joined us.

  Thank goodness there were DV with guns looking out for my best interest. I didn't even notice he'd appeared.

  "I hope you aren't ready to go home yet," Toby said. "The Were have been encouraged to stay and mingle after the show."

  "They planned a social event," Dahlia added. "It's part of an effort to improve interpack relations, which, I admit, are even worse than Were-slas
h-DV relations."

  I jerked my head in the direction of the stage. House lights showed a once-more restless crowd in front of it. "I get the impression that Were just don't play well together. They hate the DV. They hate each other. They hate people. Why would you want to knowingly be a part of that, Toby? It seems like the packs are only put together so that they can hate in bigger numbers."

  Toby looked away, leaving Dahlia to answer.

  "He needs the contacts," she said. "Toby's never been a part of a pack. He needs to learn rules and traditions. Cultural ideals. I just hope he doesn't learn the bad habits."

  She patted his leg and he smiled, a nervous flash of teeth. "DV security will compel humans to leave soon. Given the amount of booze they had tonight, their minds will be more than open to suggestion. Once they sweep the crowd, Were security will double-check and take over."

  "Oh," I said. "Are all the DV going to leave, too?"

  "No," she said. "Some, like me, will remain by invitation. You'll stay, too, as an extension of DV hospitality, although it's best if we keep your status a secret. If you leave your barriers up, you won't even notice the compulsion. Hopefully, the others will just assume you're plain human."

  "Sounds like a plan. I'd like to keep out of the way, though."

  "Not a problem," she said as she glanced down at the roiling crowd. "I really don't feel like trouble tonight."

  On the way downstairs, Toby's demeanor went from tense to rigid with apprehension. His face assumed an odd tightness, his mouth stretching across his jaw. It looked about as natural as a smile in a funeral home.

  He ushered me to a side bar, one closest to the front of the auditorium near the stage. I hadn't noticed this bar before but that was because it hadn't been open during the show. This one was classy—it had stools, for one thing, comfy ones with cushioned tops, and classy brass rungs, more along the style Rodrian would have in his lounges. A glance behind the bar showed the stock wasn't limited to the cheap stuff, either.