by Michelle Kay
The Pritchards—Hannah’s family—were well established in her pack, going back several generations the way Clover’s did, but the two girls had never been very close. Growing up, Hannah complained that Clover was too rough, too rude. Clover thought the other girl was boring and overly sensitive. She was the sweet and helpless type. Blonde, pretty, good with children and with the elderly. Spent time with the sick. Soft-spoken. She was the one all the little girls in their pack looked up to, strived to be like—she was the pack’s golden child.
Then Hannah had been picked up by the Bureau. And the finger-pointing had started.
“You know what I mean.” Clover’s attempt to apologize for the insensitive joke was weak, but Hannah, in her own sweet way, only offered her a sympathetic smile. “Anyway, I have your letters.” Clover fished the sopping wads of paper out of her bag. Paper was hard enough to come by in her pack, let alone envelopes, so everything was scribbled on scraps—newspaper clippings, the backs of documents businessmen had thrown away, flyers—and folded as neatly as the medium would allow. Even wet, even crumpled, Hannah accepted them graciously.
“Wait out here a minute and I’ll get mine.” She disappeared back inside the restaurant, and Clover slumped against the wall again.
The other girl really did look good. She was healthy, glowing even, as cliché as that seemed. She met with Hannah once every week, late at night, in a park near her new master’s house. Clover brought letters from her family and friends to her and Hannah exchanged them for her own. She had become nothing more than a courier. It wouldn’t hurt so much if the pack were just as willing to break the rules for other members who had been taken as they were for Hannah.
The pack had rules.
Important rules.
And rule number one was that if you’re taken by the Bureau, you stop existing. There was a bit of literal truth to that, since the majority of werewolves picked up by the Bureau were never heard from again. Everyone knew they were dead. The Bureau only sold those who were mild enough, young enough, pretty enough to make good slaves. But whether you were led to the sales floor or the slaughterhouse, you stopped existing to the pack. No one tried to save you. No one tried to contact you.
Unless you were Hannah Pritchard.
The light from the kitchen washed the alley again as Hannah returned, one hand full of posh stationary, the other carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Tucked under her arm was a baguette. Clover took the letters first, stuffing them into her still-soggy bag. She ignored the bread, despite the hungry twisting in her stomach and took the parcel in both hands. The weight of it thrilled her, and made her forget about the smell of the bread for a moment.
“Is this it? Is it everything?” She squeezed the wrapping, trying to gauge the weight and firmness of the thing.
“Yes, but—” She held the bread in both hands now, her pretty face darkening. “Clover, you’ve been acting weird lately. I’m worried. I know you’re upset about your family, but the things you’re asking for…you’re not planning anything dangerous, are you?”
Clover squeezed the package against her stomach, hating to hear Hannah mention her family at all. Living such a posh lifestyle, Hannah hardly seemed sad about what had happened to herself, let alone what happened to Clover’s parents. Her siblings. She didn’t understand the anguish of the people she’d left behind, or of those who were left behind by others.
“Why would I be planning anything dangerous? Even if I wanted to do something crazy, Byron would never let me, right?”
“Well, that’s true. But he’s letting you meet with me, so I thought, maybe—”
“He’s only doing that because it’s you.” There was a beat of silence between them, and Clover got the impression that maybe, just maybe, Hannah was aware of the special treatment she got. “How’s the young master?” Hopefully a change of subject would keep Clover from feeling guilty about the frown marring the other girl’s face.
“He’s alright,” she said before touching the collarbone just visible through the drape of her uniform. “He gave me this beautiful necklace as a gift the other day.”
Clover’s eyes passed over the arc of gold resting over her sternum—a crescent moon, like some stupid reminder that both she and Hannah were tied to the wicked ball of rock. It was like giving a crutch-shaped pendant to an amputee. It was offensive, whether Hannah realized it or not.
“It’s beautiful.” Clover tried to not mean it, but it was beautiful. It was delicate, trendy and trafficable. Just like Hannah was. She, just like that necklace, was the sort of possession that screamed status. “You’re lucky he likes you so much.”
Hannah’s tiny smile made it obvious that she liked him just as much, but they avoided talking about Callum, her owner’s teenaged son. When Hannah had first told her that she’d fallen for the boy, Clover’s response had not been good. It had been loud, angry, and very nearly violent. She asked about him sometimes as a way of apologizing, but she still hated him—still hated the idea of it. Anyone who fell for a human, especially a human who owned you, was a traitor.
“You know, Clover, I’ve been thinking.” Her hands turned the bread over and over as she paused to find the right words. “I feel like I’ve become pretty close with my new family. And I thought that maybe I could ask for some provisions to send back with you some time.”
Clover’s fist was full of the other girls blouse before she realized she’d snatched her up. The bread toppled onto the ground between them.
“Are you stupid?” Clover tried to keep her voice down, not wanting to alert the other workers inside the restaurant, or the pedestrians on the nearby sidewalk. “I don’t care how much you like your new family.” The word oozed off her lips like poison. “Don’t you dare tell them about us.”
“But they could help.” Hannah stumbled as she was yanked closer. "They're good people."
"They're not," Clover spit. "If they were good people, they wouldn't have a slave! You're their property, not their daughter! They don’t give a shit about you, Hannah. And if you say a word to them about us I’ll drop your market value myself, you understand me?”
The light hanging over the restaurant’s entrance caught the tears in Hannah’s eyes and Clover released her. She’d not meant to go that far, but she was already breaking so many rules. Why did she get away with it, while Clover was left to sneak around in the shadows to avoid excommunication? The blonde girl staggered away from her, watching her like she’d been the one who was just betrayed. Like it hadn’t been the other way around.
“Don’t say anything,” Clover said again, much softer this time. “I’ll see you next week.”
Of course, Clover was lying. She had the package she needed from Hannah, which meant she could move on to the next stage in her plan. Whether the pack okayed it or not, Clover would get her family back.
To her credit, Hannah held her crying in check until she was back inside the restaurant. But she’d not said goodbye, and Clover didn’t bother to either. In the dark wash of the alley, Clover stooped down, collected the loaf of bread from the ground, and started the long walk back to her pack’s den.
- 04 -
The briny smell of the culvert beneath the boatyard and dry-docks soothed the tension that had grown inside Clover during her walk home. It had been a relief when she'd peeled the chain-link fencing away from the wide storm drain that emptied the runoff from the city into the bay. The tunnel was wide and generally overlooked since the trek down the steep, broken concrete to get to it was treacherous. City workers usually just glanced at it and assumed that the fencing which had once been set firm into the cement wall was secure. Clover and her pack did everything they could to keep that illusion intact. It was the only way in or out of their makeshift home, and if agents found the entrance, it was only a matter of time before they found the den.
Clover pulled the fencing firm against the wet stone, the smell of low tide mixing with the mildew and the stink of refuse that sometimes washed
through the culvert. It wasn't a good smell, but it was a comforting one. The sound of the cranes and loading equipment above her drown out any noise the fence might have made, so she wasn't gentle as she fastened the ropes they used to keep the fencing in place.
Inside the culvert was the only entrance—or exit for that matter—to her pack's home. A rusted ladder hung from the ceiling of the domed tunnel, and at the top was a manhole that would take her up into the harbor—into the stacks of old freight cars that had been connected to each other by makeshift doorways. It was a honeycomb of rusted metal and cramped compartments.
No one really remembered how the stacks of old freight cars became their sanctuary, but there were rumors. The consensus was that, several generations back, the dock owner had a son infected by a renegade werewolf. The stories suggested he was disgusted by his boy's treatment at the hands of the Bureau, and as retaliation he set a section of his harbor aside for homeless werewolves. No one was sure how true the story was, but the "Do Not Enter" sign on the barbed fence that surrounded their rundown corner of the world had stayed up, and even the workers steered clear of the rusty towers.
Clover's icy fingers wrapped around the rungs of the entry ladder and she settled her expression into one of complete disinterest. She couldn't let her packmates know that she'd been chased by agents, or that she was smuggling her new parcel. She crawled through the small hatch that led into the lowest level of the freight car tower and the warmth blurred her memories of the sewer.
The thin sheet metal that made up the walls and floor was covered by blankets that had been found, bartered for, or stolen by various pack members, giving the cramped space a tent-like feel.
Caleb and Joshua, brothers in their late twenties and early thirties respectively, sat by a space heater, keeping watch over the main entrance. Even with Joshua's seven-year-old daughter, Heather, in his lap, they both held weapons. The regulations that had been placed on firearms made their procurement nearly impossible, even on the black market, so one held a steel pipe and the other a chiseled hammer. Crude weapons like these were usually the only choice.
"It's about time, Clover." Josh tossed his hammer onto the blankets in front of him. "Sandy's been losing her mind since she realized you were missing again."
"She's always losing her mind." Shutting the entrance tightly behind her, she locked her time as Rainer's prey out.
"You look awful."
She felt awful. She wasn't soaking wet any more, but her hair was frizzier than normal after being dunked in the filthy water, and the smell of run off and garbage hung on her. Still, she shot Caleb a nasty look, but before the belligerent response that had sparked in her brain could make it out of her mouth, they were interrupted.
"Where's my letter?" Heather's voice was shrill under her bluster. She was only ever brave enough to talk to Clover like that when she was in her father's lap.
Heather was a pretty girl who had looked up to Hannah. She'd always tried to emulate her, but her attitude was too poor to live up to the standards set by the pack's favorite.
"Sorry it's wet." Despite the annoyance she normally felt for her bratty pack-mate, Clover was too exhausted to argue with her. Instead, she produced a soggy envelope from her satchel with 'Heather' written on it in beautiful, loopy handwriting.
"What'd you do to it?" Heather complained as she got her little fingers on the wet paper.
"Don't be rude," Josh murmured, taking the letter from her. "We'll leave it here to dry." He set it near the small heater.
Heather mumbled an apology but continued to pout at the waterlogged envelope.
"Drop your bag in the toilet?" The younger brother prodded the soggy letter with the end of his pipe.
Not feeling like engaging the usually abrasive Caleb, Clover made her way to the ladder that would take her to the higher levels of their metal maze. She heard the younger man mockingly wish her luck as she began her climb, and she knew she'd need it. Her aunt wasn't going to have anything nice to say to her.
As she made her way through the compound, she wondered when going to her aunt's compartment would start feeling natural. It had been a few weeks since she and her few belongings had been moved from the space she had shared with her family to where her aunt stayed. She didn't like it. Her body still steered her toward the highest compartments, and more than once she'd realized she'd gone too many levels up. The trip back to the fourth level where her new home was always made her ache.
Ignoring questions about where she'd been, she made her way through the consecutive doorways cut in the sides of the cars that led her to adjacent towers. Delivering the letters she'd gotten from Hannah would postpone her lecture, so she might as well take her time.
While the cars were warm, thanks to the stolen power line that brought them electricity from the active areas of the harbor, they were still small and overcrowded. Several families tended to live in a single car, their personal spaces only delineated by hanging blankets, or sometimes planks of wood. Privacy was hard to come by, and secrets were hard to keep. And it made her wonder if the secret she carried in her satchel was what made it feel so heavy.
"Mom, Clover's back!" Jake's voice was the first thing to greet her as she stepped off the ladder into the compartment she shared with him, her aunt, and the Pritchard family.
The compartment buzzed as everyone moved through the draping fabric.
"You're in so much trouble." He lowered his voice so his mom couldn't scold him for his bad attitude.
"Shut up, bed-wetter." The insulted look on his face was satisfying.
Jake had been a thorn in her side since she'd started living with her aunt. She knew he felt threatened by her, but she was tired of being told to be gentler with him. Her family had been destroyed, and they were worried about his feelings? Their words certainly hadn't quelled her urge to chuck him down the ladder hole some days.
As Jake retreated into the car, whining for his mother, Hannah's parents approached her. Her mother was a pale, wispy thing, and while her father was once a strong looking man, he'd become gaunt and thin since his daughter's capture. He held his wife tight about the shoulders, both of them giving her the same silent plea for good news. Hannah's siblings watched from across the car.
"She's fine." Clover whispered, pulling her satchel around to present the thickest envelopes.
Clover could see the pressure release from Hannah's parents as Celia tucked herself into her husband's arms, beginning her weekly mail-delivery-cry. Behind them, Abby, the younger daughter, disappear back into her private tent. Henry, her elder brother stayed where he was, though his face was hard as he watched his parents grieve. Hannah's capture had devastated her family.
"Thank you, Clover." Wyatt took the letters, knowing his wife needed more time to compose herself.
Shame twisted her stomach. This was the last time she would deliver letters for them. "Don't mention it."
Over Wyatt's shoulder, Clover saw her aunt. It was alarming sometimes, how much she reminded Clover of her father. Sandra wasn't as tall as her dad had been, but she was set wide through her shoulders and her skin was dark and rich. Clover had loved how dark his skin looked beside her mother's. They had been beautiful together. The glare her aunt gave her made it hard to reminisce, though. Her salted hair made a halo of baby-curls around her face that made her seem deceptively gentle. The rest was pulled into a small tuft at the back of her head. She was waiting for Wyatt and Celia to return to their space, then Clover knew she would move in for the kill.
Finally, Clover was left alone with the strong-bodied woman. Squaring her shoulders, she walked toward the back of the compartment where her pallet was, wanting to ditch her satchel as quickly as she could. The last thing she needed was to be caught red handed with her package from Hannah.
"Well?" Sandra's voice was dead serious, and the way she'd grounded her feet and crossed her arms made it look like she was restraining herself.
"I just lost track of time." Clover kept her
voice level. Even before living with her father's sister, she'd known that arguing with her was dangerous.
"Doing what?"
"Does it really matter?"
"Yes! Yes, it matters, Clover." Her voice shook. "This isn't a game. You're gonna get yourself killed."
"Then you want me to stop checking on Hannah?" Clover shamelessly raised her voice, using the Pritchards' proximity to her advantage.
It worked, and Sandra took a breath to calm herself. "You know what I mean," she said in a quieter tone.
"I'm sorry, alright?" Clover tried to smooth things over by being mostly honest. "But I'm fine, and Hannah's fine."
"Hannah is not fine." Sandra caught Clover by the arm just before she was able to stow her bag. Her voice was quiet enough to keep their conversation private, but was shaking. "And if you keep this up, you're gonna end up just like her."
"What d'you want from me?"
Pain crossed Sandra's features. She and her brother Weston, Clover's dad, had been the only members of their immediate family left. "I want you to stay home where it's safe."
"And rot away in here? No, thanks." With one good jerk, she got her arm back and managed to toss her bag into her sectioned pallet.
"It's not 'rotting away.' It's staying safe. Do you know what they do to werewolves that get caught?"
A chill shook Clover's body, and her hands, which had formed fists without her knowing, began to tremble. She knew. She also knew they'd made a silent agreement to avoid the subject since her family's capture.
"Aunt Sandra, stop. Please."
"It's not just you, Clover." Sandra looked apologetic, but didn't back down. "When are you gonna understand? They could follow you back here. You could lead them right to us."
"But I didn't. And I wouldn't. I'd die out there before I lead them back here, whether these people like me or not." Clover pressed her lips between her teeth, instantly regretting what she'd said. It stopped her aunt for a few beats, though.
