by Michelle Kay
"Probably. It’s the one he took to work with him."
There was a very long pause as Fisher looked over Clover's offer, then with a sigh he started repacking things into the case.
"Alright," he said, "but only because you’re Wes' girl."
Clover smiled for what seemed like the first time in ages. "Thank you.”
"Don't thank me, Clover," Fisher said genuinely. “I'm sending you right into the farmer's shed."
The older members of her pack used phrases like that, always referencing farmers. They said it hailed back to a time when farmers in rural areas actively hunted wolves for preying on their livestock, but Clover had never really understood the analogies.
He motioned to the leather bag. "I guess this means you found your target?"
"Yes." She sat up a little straighter and puffed out her chest a little. "I have him locked in his own bathroom as we speak."
He grunted. "And how do you plan to keep him in line?"
"I bit him, and now that he thinks he's infected I told him that I have an antidote. I said I'd give it to him if he does what I say."
"And he believed that?" Greying eyebrows rose on his wrinkled forehead.
"He did."
Fisher shook his head as he pulled a bag of his own onto his lap. "I'll never stop being amazed by their ignorance."
Clover tried not to be annoyed when he used “their” like he wasn’t a human himself. "Is that it?" She eyed the parcel he removed like there might be jewels inside.
"Yeah. These are your registration papers," he said, handing her a thick envelope.
It felt strange to have the papers in her hands and she had to fight the urge to rip the envelope open to see her name and photo inside. During her last meeting with Fisher he'd taken her to a small alleyway where he'd cleaned her face and taken a photo with a portable camera. He'd even brought a rolled bit of cloth that he'd used as a backdrop.
"Quiet," Fisher whispered, bringing Clover's attention back to the platform as he pulled his jacket more closely around himself, his elbow pushing the leather bag behind them in the same motion.
That was when Clover noticed the echo of shoes coming from the turnstiles. She was relieved to see the two men at the end of the platform in the blue uniforms of the police force, not the black ones that belonged to the Bureau. Following suit, Clover pulled her knees up to her body, trying to look colder than she was. She was grateful for the filthy reflection she'd seen in Elliot's mirror now. The police officers flashed some lights at each of the huddled groups, but weren't looking very hard.
As they passed, Clover heard them talking about their wives and a new child on the way. They were just making their rounds, barely paying attention to what they were looking at. Everyone was quiet until they heard the sound of the officers trudging up a distant staircase, then a slow murmur started back up.
"There's a new-owner's brochure in the envelope with your registration papers, and the instruction guide being used in the top finishing schools right now. You have to be sure to follow all the directions or they'll spot you immediately." Fisher continued as though two cops hadn't just walked passed their illegal meeting.
"They don't even care about all this, do they? The police. I mean, they don't even care that the people down here are starving."
"Why should they?" Fisher asked more passively than the subject might have warranted.
"I don't know," she admitted, trying to figure out what to do with the things in her lap now that she'd given her bag away. "I just thought they'd care a bit more about their own kind."
Clover knew there were poor humans, since she often tried to impersonate them to avoid the Bureau. Maybe it was because the most interaction she had with humans was with the workers in the soup kitchens she would duck into when she wanted a hot meal. They seemed concerned with the wellbeing of their poor. She had supposed more of them were the same.
"You're in for a world of unpleasant surprises, kid." Fisher handed her the last package, the heaviest of the set, then he passed her the ratty bag he’d brought with him. "Human or werewolf, we're all monsters."
"Werewolves aren't monsters." She’d meant her tone to be one of warning, but the weight of the small wrapped kit in her hands had her stomach churning again.
"Well, sometimes we can surprise even ourselves.” It seemed that Fisher had decided their meeting was over because he was pushing himself to his feet, his knees popping as he went, groaning to himself as he stretched his back. "And you should know, that the deeper you dig into this, the more you may realize that I'm right. You're not going to like where this goes.”
Clover stared him in the eyes, the familiar bubbling of defiance making her feel jittery. She reminded herself that no matter how much he helped, he was still a human.
“Just because you’re a jerk who would help with this.” She raised the heavy kit. “But not with getting a uniform, doesn’t mean everyone’s like you.”
“Do I look like your personal stylist? And I got you that because I wanted to see if you’d actually go through with it.” He pulled his knew bag onto his shoulder. "Also, you need to learn to haggle. I would have done this job for three of these watches."
- 08 -
The walk back to Elliot's townhouse was less tense than the trip to the subway, her mind now too distracted by her anger to worry about Bureau agents. Everyone knew Fisher was a scam-artist, but she hadn't expected him to rip her off so badly. She imagined her parents being disappointed, but she knew she was just projecting. She was disappointed with herself. Disappointed that she'd not thought more about the cost of the watches, and that she was too scared of Fisher to chase after him. Holding tight to the new, ratty bag she'd gotten, she tried to focus, instead, on what she had to do by morning.
Things at her new base of operation were just as she'd left them. She made a mental to-do list and figured telling Elliot what she needed from him was a good a place to start. Upstairs, the chair she'd used to barricade the door was still in place, and even with her ear at the door she couldn't hear anything. The fear that he was dead crept up on her again.
Steeling her face, she opened the door, not wanting him to see any nervousness in her expression if he wasn't comatose. Having half-expected to walk in on a stiff body, she was relieved to find him sitting on the floor, his back to the tub, his legs folded casually in front of him, but she also found his composure jarring. The cool eyes he turned on her had a spark of hatred that seemed intensified by his tranquility.
"Glad to see you're still alive," Clover said, able to hear the fake bravado in her voice.
"Were you trying to kill me?" His voice was rough from disuse.
"Well you wouldn't be much use to me dead." She leaned against the door frame, trying to match his disinterest.
Without a word, they sized each other up. A dark bruise had formed on Elliot's brow where she'd clubbed him with the cell phone, his shirt had two brown stains of dried blood, and she knew his thumbs were probably purple. If he was in pain, he was hiding it, and it was that calm, angelic face that infuriated Clover the most. Even with the hidden anger she saw in his eyes, they still had an edge of kindness to them, and it made the whole process so much harder.
"Are you hungry?" She crossed her arms over her stomach, glancing at the bare counter to cut off the pity she began feeling.
"Do you care?"
"Look, if you're not interested, I can leave you in here for a few more hours."
Silence settled between them again as an insulted sensation brewed inside her. Sure, she'd broken into his home, bitten him, stabbed him a little, and locked him in his own bathroom, but now she was trying to do something nice. He should be more grateful.
"Come on." Clover took a breath and tried being nice again. "I'll loosen your thumb-ties too."
Elliot considered her, his eyes screaming distrust, but after a moment he fumbled his way to his feet, only a ghost of the pain she knew he felt showing on his face. Hooking her hand in the c
rook of his elbow, she led him out of his room and down the stairs, neither of them speaking as they went. In the sitting room, she fashioned a set of loose handcuffs from more zip-ties she'd stashed in her bag. After his new bindings were secure, ensuring his hands would remain behind his back, a pair of sheers they found in the kitchen were used to cut the ties off his dark and swollen fingers.
Elliot's head fell back in relief as the rigid plastic band was snapped off. She’d never tell him, but she was glad he was in less pain. Maybe it would keep him from being so difficult. Reminding herself that she needed to keep in control, she pushed him toward the table, forcing him into one of the chairs. Turning her back to him in an intentional show of trust, she retrieved a loaf of bread she'd found in his cupboards that had cheese and some sort of spicy meat cooked into it. She'd eaten half the loaf already, but figured it would be easy for him to manage with his hands still bound.
"Here." She set the bread down in front of him, taking the adjacent seat.
"How am I supposed to eat this?" he asked, frustration clouding his otherwise calm voice.
"Well you are a dog now, aren't you?" she said, despite her attempt to play nice. The satisfaction of returning the horrible slang humans had been using on her and her people was worth it, though. "Shouldn't you learn to eat like one?"
"You're going to be arrested for this." His face flushed.
"Oh, relax." Clover sighed, then tore a bite-sized piece of bread from the loaf. "I'm not gonna make you eat it with your face. Here."
Trying to look passive, she held the bit of bread to his mouth, but he pressed his lips together in defiance and they stared at one another again. After a moment Clover shrugged and put the piece she'd offered into her own mouth, continuing to speak as she chewed.
"I figure you're probably… confused. Probably wondering why I broke in and locked you in your bathroom." She offered him another piece of bread, only to eat it herself when he refused again. "The thing is, I need your help,"
"Help?" He laughed. "Why the hell would I help you?”
"Well," she began, taking another bite to keep her temper distracted. "I don't know if maybe you forgot about being infected, but you're gonna help me because, if you don't, you'll never get the antidote."
"You're lying." Elliot's answer was immediate and confident. It made Clover's stomach clench. "There's no such thing."
"You think so?"
"If there was, wouldn't you just use it on yourself?" He watched the loaf of bread shrink.
"You humans think you're so smart, don't you?" Clover was grateful for her time spent lying to officers and to her aunt—her finely honed skills were paying off. "The antidote only works before someone's first transformation. Besides, it doesn't work on people who were born infected..." She looked down for effect, "Like I was."
The pause was slightly longer this time.
"Why should I trust you?"
"Well, the way I see it, you can trust me, help me and get a cure that might not exist." She leaned back in her chair. "Or you can refuse, not get a cure that may exist, and eventually get picked up by the Bureau.”
Clover watched the battle going on behind his mask of composure, and saw him begin to lose. Her knee bounced restlessly under the table as she tried to hide her impatience. She needed him to believe her lie—really believe it. Without him, everything she'd accomplished would crumble.
Just when she was about to open her mouth, planning to deliver a more direct threat, Elliot blinked, breaking their heated eye contact to look at the table instead. The sigh she let out was silent. She recognized his submission and spared his pride by offering him another bit of bread, not asking him to say anything out loud. This time he took it.
"I'm really hungry." His shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I know." Clover reassured him. "Come on, eat up."
For several minutes Clover fed him what remained of the bread, resentful of how weak he was to hunger. He'd gone less than twenty-four hours without food and was already desperate enough to eat from his captor's hands. It wasn't his fault. She was sure he'd never gone more than a day without a substantial meal, but it still made her angry. She fought the urge to ask if the Bureau fed their prisoners as regularly as they fed themselves.
When he was done, she retrieved a bottle of water and held it to his lips so he could drink, neither of them seeming to care as some spilled onto his stained shirt.
"You have a first-aid kit?"
"I do, if it wasn't destroyed when you threw it." Now that his stomach was full, he seemed to be trying to regain a bit of his pride.
"You better watch the way you talk to me." Clover stood up, yanking his shirt to get him up as well.
Elliot said nothing as she led him back up the stairs, the puncture-wound in his side seeming to be a fresh enough reminder that she meant business.
"It's that white box by the dresser." Elliot tilted his chin toward the small kit laying amidst the bottles of hand soap, toothpaste and cologne.
"Sit down." She shoved him onto the edge of the mattress before retrieving the box marked with a red cross.
It had everything she'd need, but as she tossed it onto the comforter, she realized she'd have to get his shirt off to patch his wounds. It would be hard with his hands still cuffed, but she wasn't about to remove them. Instead she went for her knife, intending to cut the disgusting tee-shirt off. But as she unfolded the blade, something changed in Elliot's expression. Maybe using the weapon she'd threatened his life with wasn't the best choice, because he panicked.
One kick to her solar plexus had Clover on the floor, her mouth open like a dying fish. Her stomach still convulsing, she rolled to her side, catching Elliot's ankle as he made for the door. The floor shook with the force of his un-broken fall. The struggle that followed was weak as Elliot tried to shove Clover away with his legs, both of them bruised and tired from the day before. Once Clover managed to straddle his chest, safe from his inflexible legs, she gained the upper hand. Then her blade was at his throat again.
"Stop!" Her scream was warbled by the muscles still jumping in her abdomen as the edge of her knife drew a small line of blood just below Elliot’s Adam's apple.
They both went still, both trying to catch their breath as they scowled at each other. Clover wanted to slap the defiant expression from his face, shake him and make him realize that he'd lost. She knew she was lying, but he didn't, and his attitude was infuriating.
"Do you not get it?" Her voice was steadier this time, and she refused to move off of him. "It doesn't matter if you get away from me, because I've already ruined your life. It's in your blood already, and the only way to fix it is to do what I tell you."
She was impressed with the ferocity of her own lies, almost believing them herself. She needed him to give up the hope he was still hanging onto—he had to be obedient. The heat in his eyes cooled, but didn't disappear. Instead, the muscles under her relaxed and his head tilted back like a dog exposing his vulnerable spots. Clover took a few more breaths before getting up, hooking his arm with both hands and pulling him to his feet. She drug him back to his bed and forced him to sit down.
"I'm not going to hurt you, alright?" She didn't sound very convincing, and really, why would anyone in his position believe her.
"You pulled a knife on me."
"I was gonna cut your shirt off so I could clean you, you ungrateful ass." Her face heated when she said it out loud. "But if you really wanna keep it on, then I won't. Open your mouth." She stuffed the hem of his shirt past his teeth. She wanted it out of her way while she cleaned the crusty puncture at his side. She also wanted him to shut up.
Her body still shook from the high of fighting, her stomach complaining as she continued to catch her breath. The silence was a relief, though she could tell that Elliot still had more to say. His chest worked to catch up as well, and she could feel a tiny tremor in him as she worked.
The first time she'd touched him on the stairs' landing she'd been struck
by how firm his body was. Given his prim appearance in the photo, she'd expected him to be frail, but he wasn't. He wasn't wide and thick like her father or Byron, their pack leader, but he was well-built—solid.
"Ow!" Elliot jerked as she pushed on his wound too hard.
"Shut up." She stuffed the shirt back into his mouth, embarrassed that her attention to his body had distracted her. "First you're stronger than I expected, now you're whinier."
He growled into the cotton, but held still, seeming uninterested in another fight now that a new bloodstain was growing around the collar of his shirt.
"Look," she began, trying to use the passive voice that seemed to work on him in the kitchen, "I'm really not interested in killing you, alright? Or having you captured and tortured. I'm not a monster. All I want is a chance to get inside the Bureau where you hold prisoners. My family's in there somewhere, and I just want them back." She thought she'd done a good job at sounding gentle.
They both stayed silent as the small hole at Elliot's side was cleaned and covered with an adhesive bandage. Figuring he needed time to consider his situation, Clover didn't press the matter. Instead, she moved on to his bite wound which would take more than his shirt hem being held up. Trying to seem more considerate she kept her movements slow as she pushed his shirt over his head, leaving it bunched awkwardly on his upper arms behind him.
This wound wasn’t as neat as the other—the skin torn rather than sliced. Once the dried blood was wiped and peeled away, she saw an outline of her teeth, haloed by a deep purple bruise.
Elliot's eyes burned holes through her as she moved to clean what turned out to be the very minor cut on his throat. She tried to remain steady under his gaze, fighting the urge to break his nose. Maybe it wasn't fair that all her hatred for the Bureau had fallen to his shoulders, but, when she looked at him, all she saw were black uniforms, metal tipped boots, and cells crammed full of children ready to be sent off to finishing schools.
