The Endangered

by S. L. Eaves

  Adrian and Catch had essentially saved me. They’d learned of my fate and took it upon themselves to alter the course of my future. Should I feel grateful? It is so much easier to picture them as monsters. I don’t want to owe them anything.

  When I’d killed the vampires in the club, I’d justified it as evening the score…but at the end of the day nothing is ever that black and white, is it?

  The demon inside is protecting me from myself, saving me from the tumor in my head and also from internal and external ailments. It takes care of the healing and curing if only to protect its vessel. I am its vessel.

  And it wants so much in return for this service.

  The persistent thirst for blood. A lust for carnage.

  To make matters worse, Catch hadn’t wanted me to know. He didn’t want me to credit him for saving my life. The brooding son of a bitch didn’t feel he deserved my gratitude. And now I love him more than I ever thought capable.

  Damn.

  Now I stand at the base of the steps, staring at the dark, oak-grained wood doors adorned with crosses. From what I’d gathered, crosses burned the flesh of the undead, as did holy water, exposing the demon within. There is no rule about entering a house of God, however, and I have something I want to say to him.

  Apprehensively, I climb the steps and gripped the rod iron handle. The door creaks open in a painful fashion, causing me to cringe at the sound. The church is empty. I stand, taking in the peaceful atmosphere. The air smells sweet despite the haze made visible from candelabras that line the pews. The ceiling looms high; arches of limestone shine in the candlelight chandeliers complete with the occasional cobweb for added ambience.

  Shockingly, he let me enter his house. And I did not burst into flames.

  I sit on a bench, flashing back to my childhood. My foster parents had been devote Catholics, or at least they presented themselves as such and would insist on dragging me to church every Sunday. Catholicism wasn’t a religion I embraced, but the weekly sessions were educational in the sense that they helped me figure out where I stood on certain ideals. And to see all those people so sure of the existence of heaven, a grand design, that their souls were an integral and necessary part of his master plan…it made me want to believe.

  Conversely, it was hard not to feel an underlying sadness; to sit in a room full of people desperate for something to believe in, for answers that didn’t exist. At least not for me.

  I take a seat and whisper softly, “Damned, I enter your house an unwelcome visitor. I exemplify all that is evil in your eyes and the eyes of your followers. What has happened to me? I never expected to be embraced by you in my afterlife. Not for a life of impurity and discrepancies however major or minor in severity, but for what it was, I tried to live it honorably. And I never doubted in a kismet force. Which is why I feel so scorned.

  “Destiny. Fate. Guilt. Innocence. These words are as dead to me now as you are and as I am to you. I never complained about the hand dealt to me, never questioned the ways of the world and the logic behind it. Now I question everything.

  “But what I really want to know is what I’ve done to deserve this hell, a demon allergic to your world of daylight and piteousness. You couldn’t have just stripped me from this existence? Now I stand condemned to an eternity of darkness, of violence, of suffering. To what avail?

  “This was my initial reaction to this transformation, this exile. Over time, a new realization has struck in a wave of irony. These demons have a purpose, a cause and there is honor in what they fight for. Their world shapes your world, from technology and politics to the very lives of mortals. We are killers, there is no contesting that, but we serve to protect your world by fending off predators like werewolves and other dark forces I have yet to encounter, but no doubt exist.

  “These unholy, impure creatures have shown me a world with limitless possibilities. They saved me from the fate you thought you’d sealed. They even have a plan for me. A prophecy I’m supposed to fulfill. Do I believe in their vision? No more or less than I believed in yours. I do not embrace them blindly, but for the first time I feel a sense of purpose. I can do something with the powers granted by this form, demonic as it may be.

  “Why were you determined to take me? And then to reject me…And others in my state that die without reason, without justification. I will step down from my soapbox. Blood is on my hands, as well. I’d be a hypocrite to make this speech without admitting my own guilt, my own part in this injustice.

  “In the end, I still give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you gave me the tumor as a honing device for Adrian, so he would find me and ‘save’ me. Maybe we are all part of your world and you thought I could serve a better purpose in this state. Maybe, just maybe I can believe that.

  “With the promise of death on the horizon, I cannot bear any other answer. Virtue means nothing and everything. What matters has never mattered less. There is no certainty. So I will create one. My eyes are open and you won’t be the one to shut them.”

  I sit up and make my way to the far wall where tiers of lit votive candles dance in the shadows. I light one candle for every life that ended by my hands…at least the ones I feel directly responsible for. With any luck they have found their answers.

  I exit the church feeling no catharsis from my omission. The heavy wooden door slams shut behind me and I turn, reaching up to the cross embossed in the chestnut. I place my hand firmly atop the emblem and watch small whips of smoke stream from my burning flesh.

  “Now we are done,” I whisper, removing my singed hand and watching as the red cross disappears from my palm.

  Chapter 24

  Once again I feel like a fugitive fleeing the Big Apple. The plane takes its time getting back and once landed, I have to stay inside until the sun sets. Upon recovering my pack from behind the dumpster, I toss in the gun but neglect to turn on the comm. It sits untouched. As do the contents of Adrian’s goody bag. I use the extra time to examine his clues, as ambiguous as they are. The documents with formulas have a logo on them. The faded insignia appears as a cursive “S & D.” Adrian had recovered these from somewhere.

  Another page has a map with markings across it. A pattern of growth. Werewolf packs around the world, scattered yet unified. There is a method to their madness. Someone is organizing these packs and giving them their orders. Assigning purpose. Otherwise they’d be going on a murderous rampage. Not just against humans, but they’d be battling each other over territory. Someone is showing them how to evolve from savage beasts to a controlled, systematic force.

  Adrian said underestimation is our greatest weakness. These beasts are cunning. And they are targeting the smartest and strongest of the mortal population. Plus, they had succeeded in getting one vampire under their thumb; who knows how many others were in league with them. What I hold in Adrian’s envelope is potentially the answer to the big question—Why? I have in my possession their motive. I know this is something huge. I just wish I could make heads or tails of it.

  ***

  Nightfall comes and Xan greets me at the door upon my arrival.

  “I come bearing presents.” I hold up the envelope.

  Xan looks concerned. My smile fades.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Catch.” Xan does not make eye contact.

  “No.”

  I feel nauseated.

  “He’s badly injured. He’s in your room.”

  I thrust the package at Xan and disappear up the steps.

  The door is cracked open. Catch is standing, his back to me as I enter. Bloody rags are piled in the sink and countertop. He is dressing a stomach wound with gauze.

  “Catch!”

  He turns, grimacing, the right side of his body covered in bloody bandages. His left hand fumbls with a patch of gauze while the right arm struggles to hold it in place. He is trembling as he looks up. I gasp.

  Deep, crimson gashes run from above his ear down to his chin. Tiny strips of flesh hang from his chee
ks.

  “You should see the other guy.” He tries to smile, but his face isn’t having it.

  “Let me get that.” I attempt to finish the tape job he’d started on his lower abdomen. Tape and gauze were clearly not going to cut it.

  “Why aren’t you in the infirmary?”

  “Ben used to run it. Died in battle a few years back. We still call it an infirmary, but no one here is a doctor. The room just serves as storage for medical supplies and extra blood.”

  Catch picks up a tube of liquid stitches from the medical kit.

  “One that’s gonna need some restocking after tonight.”

  “What if we fill a bathtub with blood?”

  “We need to consume it to heal. I don’t think rubbing it on wounds works. But I am game to try anything that involves me lying down.”

  I find some string and stitch his torso back together. Weak from blood loss, he sits while I patch up his face and bring him more blood.

  “What happened?”

  “Ambush. While we were hunting one, his friends were hunting us. No sooner had we made our presence known to our target, two of his blokes got the jump on us. Literally. We were inside an old factory and they came down from the rafters. Hard.”

  Blood trickles from his chin as he speaks. I pour some alcohol from the open bottle on the counter and pull one of the cleaner towels from the pile. He cringes as I apply the soaked rag to his lip and then he takes a deep swig from the bottle.

  “These wolves were working with Hanson?”

  “We think, but we didn’t exactly have the opportunity to question them.”

  “You took them out?”

  “Yep, can’t take much credit though; Xan got two outta three. Shot the place to hell. All the weapons and ammo stocked in there, surprised he didn’t blow us away.”

  I examine his shoulder, which needs a new bandage. The wolf had taken a huge chunk of flesh and muscle, leaving the bone exposed. It iss going to take more than a few pints of blood to mend.

  “Ever been mauled this bad before?”

  He shrugs. Shakes his head.

  “I’m healing quickly.”

  My stomach tenses. I can’t imagine how he looked when Xan dragged him out of the factory. Catch takes another long pull from the liquor bottle.

  “How was New York?”

  I push my hospital detour to the back of my mind. I want to tell him everything, but at the end of the day I decide his approach is best. I am better off living the lie. Or at least the pretending not to know.

  “Better than I’d remembered. There was indeed a package in that locker. Its contents may hold an answer to what these wolves are plotting, but all it left me with was more questions. I gave it to Xan to take a crack at.”

  “Good ol’ Adrian.” He fondles the pendant hanging from my neck. “He left you this?”

  I nod. “I think he steered us to New York because he wants us over there. He could have placed the package anywhere but—”

  “You’re right.”

  I stop and let him explain.

  “We recovered documents from the warehouse. Documents pointing to a shipping port in the Hudson, off of Brooklyn. And there were a bunch of contracts on legal stationary carrying the address of a Manhattan law firm. We think the wolves were using a law firm to facilitate their activities.”

  Chapter 25

  I once again find myself walking the streets of New York City. This time Catch is by my side. His recovery has taken the better part of the week, but he is good as new. Physically. Mentally is another story. The confident gleam has left his eyes. He is nervous and edgy, a paranoid version of his former self.

  On one of our routine walks to check the perimeter alarms, a raven cries from a nearby tree and Catch flinches. Ever so slightly, but I catch it.

  Inklings of insecurity slip from his normally steadfast demeanor. He wears his new vulnerability like a scar from head to toe and I don’t know what it will mean for his future. With his exceptional strength, both external and internal, I believe he’ll overcome this recent trauma. I don’t know what I can do, so I just keep up business as usual and hope that he’ll gradually fall back in stride.

  We stand at the base of an expansive building on the Upper East Side. Inhale deep enough and you can smell the stench of dirty money.

  “Five names. Five rotten lawyers aiding the wolves’ cause.”

  I produce their photos from my jacket pocket. Spring is warming the city, but I wear a lightweight jacket to ward off the cool night breeze. Catch and I study the photos for the millionth time.

  Jiro had dug deep and pulled everything he could find on these lawyers. We know their birth dates, marital status, social security numbers…everything “the system” has on them. None have criminal records. A couple traffic violations here and there, but on paper these guys are squeaky clean. Upstanding, respectable professionals with rigid work ethics. The latter will work to our advantage. Long nights in the office makes tracking easier for those of the nocturnal variety.

  The past week we’ve done little active duty, mostly preparing for an extended stay in the states. Jiro and Xan compile an arsenal of weapons and enough technology to setup a temporary base overseas. Even Marcus joins us, leaving Dade and Jiro behind to secure the mansion and keep a handle on anything that may arise on the other side of the pond during our absence. Catch would have happily volunteered for the assignment if it weren’t for me. He’d never admit this, of course, but I could tell he had secretly hoped Marcus would appoint him over Dade.

  Marcus and Xan run the new base while Quinn, Trent, Crina, Catch, and I pursue our targets. Each of us is assigned a lawyer to track. We are to learn their habits, routines, clients, anything that would shed light on their dealings with the pack in Amsterdam, the pack that had been handling Hanson’s shipments. The wolves have hired lawyers to shield their dealings, to handle customs paperwork, to make certain all the T’s were crossed and I’s dotted.

  It is by far the best lead we have because Adrian’s package gave us next to nothing to go by. His notes serve as a puzzle piece sitting isolated from the rest of the puzzle, its rounded edges refusing to snap into place, to reveal the big picture.

  “Got a theory on who or what they’ll reveal?”

  Catch looks from the photos to the building, cocking his head to the side.

  “Not sure. I expect they were recruited by some higher power, not the plebeians we encountered in Europe.”

  He is deciding whether or not to break in. I read it in his eyes as he scans the perimeter.

  “What floor did you say they’re on?”

  “10th.”

  “Mhhmm…”

  “Marcus doesn’t want us to risk it. We leave one file misplaced, give them one reason to raise their guard, we might end up with nothing.”

  “Yeah…I wouldn’t even know what to look for, frankly. It’s just tempting.”

  We start to walk back to our temporary base camp in Chelsea.

  “When is the next full moon?”

  “Four days. Why?”

  “They’re wolves.”

  “Who?”

  “The lawyers. I’m fairly certain of it. Tomorrow I plan on confirming just that.”

  The fading sunlight can still be seen in the form of pink and purple clouds. Dusk has nearly passed and I am consumed in shadow as I make my way down the crowded streets of the city. Henry, my mark, has left work heading for his local bar. I tail him from across the street, staying a half block back. I have been tracking him for a few days. Thus far, every evening after work he heads down the street with a group of friends from work to a local bar for happy hour. He likely eats there because he always spends a minimum of two hours and always leaves with friends.

  I had planned on confronting him last night, but he took a female co-worker home with him. He is a single guy who seems to embrace the bachelor lifestyle. And he is very social. Out all the time, always with people. My best bet is to corner him inside his a
partment building, in an elevator or stairwell. I can get as far as his apartment door without an invite. Now tonight, on the first full moon of the month, I watch as he walks alone. I wait at the corner to see if he will enter the bar.

  ***

  Have I seen a ghost? After all these years, it can’t be, can it? I have to know. Jeff’s mind races as he exits a coffee house and spots a ghost standing not 30 feet away. He excuses himself from his friends and heads down the block in pursuit. He spots Lori again, standing at the corner and stops a few yards back.

  “Oh my God. It is her.” Jeff’s head is in a tailspin.

  Lori starts crossing the street; he follows.

  ***

  I enter the parking garage to my left and ascend to the second floor for a better vantage point. The ledge is high and I peer over, as I’d done several times this week. Tonight, however, Henry walks past the bar without even glancing inside.

  “Where are you going tonight?” I wonder aloud.

  Henry stops without warning. I push my back flush against a pillar. After a moment, I strain my neck around the edge to catch a glimpse. Henry is crossing the street at a diagonal. He does not look up.

  “Lori?”

  I freeze. Where did I know that voice?

  Oh no.

  I whirl around and cross the garage to where he stands in one swift blur of motion. He steps back with a start.

  “It is you…”

  “Jeff? How? What?” I am caught completely off guard. Finally I stammer out a complete sentence, trying to steady my voice. “You shouldn’t be here."

  “I can’t believe it. You passed me on the street. I had to see if my eyes were fooling me.”

  We stand with matching stunned expressions. I knew coming to the States was a bad idea. Carelessly, I wear my dyed hair, my best camouflage, pulled back, leaving my face plainly visible. What rotten luck. He gives a nervous smile and memories of our friendship flooded my mind.

  “If I saw me on the street—after what I did—I’d run the other direction or chase after me with a wooden stake.”