by Alice Cain
It would certainly explain a few things. Not how or why they think it, but the treatment since—the deprivation of liberties, the inhumane treatment that actually breaches the country's constitution, and the failure to explain to me why I'm here.
I knew even before talking to Darrick that the laws were unfair to werewolves, but I wonder if even he knows things like this are happening. Gratefully holding onto that "distance" the headache has given me—I have no doubt I'll freak out about all of this later—I spend the next several hours composing the blog entry I intend to post once this nightmare is over, and then I spend the endless hours after that just hoping to get out of this alive.
~*~*~*~*~
*** Darrick ***
Even with my werewolf metabolism I wake with a hangover. Once Hunter and I had fulfilled out duties as leaders of the pack, we'd retreated back to the alpha's residence and set about decimating the liquor cabinet and drowning both our sorrows. In retrospect it wasn't one of our finest decisions, especially since we both seem to have passed out in the most uncomfortable positions possible.
My neck and shoulders are stiff and my head aches like the devil, so I'm not the least bit thrilled when my phone starts to ring loudly, very, very loudly.
I manage to clumsily get the thing out of my pocket but by the time I can focus my eyes enough to read the caller ID it's stopped ringing. If it had been anyone else I probably would have left it a few hours before calling back, but I promised Emily that I would never ignore her calls.
My mouth tastes like a cat used it for a litter box so I'm very glad we're not face to face when I call her back and mumble a "hey, 'sup?"
"Darrick," Emily asks without returning my greeting, "do you know a woman named Kelly? She says she's a friend of John Hartmann's."
"She's John's editor," I say waking more fully, concern for my mate overriding the pain of my headache.
"She's been trying to call you all night."
It's not a surprise that she couldn't get through. I block my phone to unknown numbers on weekends. I still take calls from my betas and a few others from the pack, but I learned a long while ago that it was the only way to get a break from the never-ending problems of running several large companies.
"Did she say why?"
"She wants to know if John's a werewolf."
"What the hell?" I ask. "If she's a friend of John's wouldn't she know the answer to that already?"
"I don't know why she's asking," Emily says, "but she wouldn't take my word for it that he's definitely human." Emily seems to hesitate a moment before adding, "She sounded really freaked out."
"Did she leave a number?"
"She did," Emily says. I grab a pen and quickly scribble it down. "Thanks, Em."
Hunter is already stirring from his uncomfortable position half on and half off the couch when I dial. Kelly answers her phone on the first ring.
"Darrick?" she asks aggressively. "I know you don't know me."
"I know of you," I say truthfully.
"Okay," she says sounding harried. "I am about to start some shit that could end my career and/or land me in jail so before I do any of that I absolutely need your one-hundred percent assurance that John Hartmann is not a werewolf."
"Kelly," I ask, bewildered by her words and concerned now for the welfare of a woman I know my mate considers a close friend. "What's going on?"
"There was a police raid at John's home last night. They're treating him as an 'undeclared werewolf.'"
John isn't a werewolf, but I'm terrified now. Every person in the country is aware of the severe penalties for declaring an incorrect status, and the Internet is full of stories of werewolves disappearing and never being heard from again. Fur sprouts on my arms and claws grow from my fingertips before I can pull the fear for my mate back under control. If there is one thing guaranteed to trigger a werewolf's baser instincts, it's a threat to their mate. "John is not a werewolf," I say on a low growl.
"Okay," Kelly says nervously. "Okay, I have a plan...sort of. I need to call in a whole lot of favors."
"Can I help?" I ask trying to moderate my voice despite the fangs now sprouting from my gums. I'm very aware that racing down the mountain to try and rescue my mate is possibly the worst thing I could do in this situation, but I can't sit here and do nothing.
"Do you have the passwords to John's blog?"
"I do."
"Okay, I'm sending you a couple links that I'm gong to need you to stream in real-time on the blog." I glance at Hunter and he nods, silently assuring me that he or someone within the pack is capable of doing that.
"We can also duplicate it onto several others," Hunter adds confidently. "And make offline backups as quickly as you can upload it."
"Okay, good, yeah...yeah, I can work with that." Kelly says, obviously having heard Hunter's words. "Okay. I'll...um... I'll call you when I have everything in place. This will either bring John home or I guess I'll disappear the same way he did."
I swallow hard at the realization of what this woman might be risking. "Kelly, John wouldn't want you getting hurt because of him."
Kelly exhales hard and I can almost hear the determination even before she starts speaking. "John's a good friend and I care for him deeply, but I'm not really doing it for him," she says quietly. "I became a journalist because I wanted to expose unfairness and inequality. It's about time I started doing it."
"Oh... Okay," I say, awed a little bit by this woman John considers a good friend and who is therefore undoubtedly a decent human being. "Be safe."
"I will," she assures me before she hangs up. A moment later my phone buzzes with the links we need.
~*~*~*~*~
** John **
A few minutes ago a trickle of water flowed down the wall. I managed to catch enough to wet my lips and tongue, but I was too busy being suspicious of the liquid I couldn't see to take any real advantage of it. I'm still damn thirsty but it helped a little.
And even after that I still thank fuck I'm human.
I know from Darrick that a werewolf's metabolism, while faster than a human's, is also more demanding. Just from what I've observed with my lover, I'm sure that a werewolf left as long as I was without water would be deliriously, desperately thirsty by the time that little trickle came down the wall. I also suspect a werewolf would have quickly scented the water as drinkable and—if they weren't already in furry form in an attempt to remove the handcuffs and shield against the cold—would probably have changed into their werewolf shape to collect as much liquid from the metal floor as they could get before it drained away. They'd be cold, frightened, feeling defeated, and very weak from hunger which is what I think my jailers are actually aiming for.
Isolation, sensory deprivation, starvation, and now a trickle of water that would very likely result in a shape change. Everything so far seems designed to drive a werewolf into reacting violently to the situation. If I didn't have more faith in humanity as a whole I'd think that this scenario was deliberately set-up to give the guards an excuse to kill the werewolf and claim self-defense.
Thankfully—and I can barely believe I'm grateful for it yet again—I'm still too nauseated from what must be a pretty bad concussion to even think about food. I'm lucky that the dehydration is manageable and that the total darkness is probably helping to keep my headache from getting worse.
I've no sooner thought the thought when I'm blinded by a sudden shaft of light. Too busy shielding my eyes, I don't quite understand that a gun is being pointed through the hole until I hear a voice demand, "Just kill it already."
"Can't," the guy apparently tasked with murdering me laments. "It's still in human form."
There is some very creative use of swear words before the tiny portal is slammed shut and I'm plunged into complete silence and darkness once more. It takes a moment but I shiver violently when I realize what just happened. If I'd been a werewolf in furry form I'd probably be dead right now.
Fucking hell. It's one thing to con
sider conspiracy theories, but it's something else entirely to have them confirmed.
~*~*~*~*~
*** Darrick ***
I can barely breathe. A few minutes ago Kelly walked into the police station where John was supposedly taken, identified herself as a junior reporter looking for a "human interest" story, and then very subtly "off the record" started to interview the lead detective in charge of the case against John. The guy had been more than happy to brag, and Kelly had stroked his ego the whole time.
He has already happily described the "flawless teamwork" and "necessary violence" of John's arrest.
Per Kelly's instructions we're recording everything her hidden camera and mic are collecting. At the moment we're making offline backups, but we're not streaming live just yet. We need to figure out where John is being held first. Right now we don't need anyone to realize this supposed professional is giving information to a reporter who plans to expose whatever the hell is going on.
Apparently John has been arrested simply because an anonymous tip-off identified him as a werewolf. That's it. A phone call from someone who didn't have to identify themselves. No proof. No investigation. No interview. The police didn't even bother to do more than a rudimentary identify check to confirm that he is registered as human. I'm not even sure they realize he's a fairly well-known investigative reporter.
"Oh," Kelly says, acting ditzy and confused for her audience when the police officer tells her that John is not being held in the cells there. "Silly me. I should have realized you wouldn't bring werewolves here."
"That's right," the guy says, buying Kelly's "ditzy female" act like the gullible fool that he is. If I wasn't so damn scared for my mate, I'd be embarrassed for police officers everywhere. "We have a special facility about a half hour from here—designed specifically to hold werewolves."
"Wow, I bet that's a scary place."
"Never been inside," the officer says with a careless shrug. "I just arrest the animals. I don't need to process their mangy asses as well."
"Oh, okay," Kelly says, sounding unsure, "so they'll do a blood test at the facility and then set a court date?"
The police officer huffs a laugh as if the "junior reporter" talking to him is just the most adorable naïve child he's ever met. Ice slithers down my spine at what it might mean.
"Werewolf that size," he says, leaning in as if he's sharing a secret, "is probably dead already."
"Really?" Kelly asks, continuing to act her part despite the terror she must be feeling right now. "Does that happen often?"
"Yeah," the officer says, wincing slightly as he moves back. "Sad fact really. Werewolves just can't control themselves. They attack the guards and get themselves put down."
I barely hear the rest of what Kelly says as I try to process everything that was just said. John is not a violent man, so attacking the guards would not be his first instinct. But the same could be said for most werewolves. Yes, there are some who are angry enough, desperate enough, and suicidal enough to do as the police officer just described, but certainly not in the numbers he seems to be suggesting.
Kelly leaves the police station shortly after, her ditzy tone of voice still working overtime as she says goodbye to a handful of harried staff.
"I'm not sure what to do now," Kelly says, her words filled with anguish as she climbs into her vehicle. "I don't know of any police facilities that specialize in werewolves, not in this town or anywhere else."
"I think I might," Hunter says unmuting the connection we have to Kelly. "On the map there's a large animal processing center just on the edge of town."
"About half an hour away from here," Kelly says, agreeing but sounding skeptical. "Processing werewolves at the dog pound sounds a little cliché though."
"No argument from me," Hunter says, "but it does explain how they keep it a secret. The combined scents of stray dogs and cats and other seized animals would easily mask the scent of werewolves from any werewolf in the area."
"It's also pretty isolated." Kelly says slowly as if she's thinking the idea through. "Is there any other possible site on the map?"
I lean over Hunter's shoulder and study the map he's been looking at. "Nothing that stands out," I say. Hunter grunts his agreement.
"Okay," Kelly says, that steely determination back in her voice. "I'm going to need to call in a few more favors. Give me twenty minutes."
"Stay safe," Hunter orders just before Kelly cuts the connection.
"Twenty minutes," I repeat as nausea continues to twist my stomach.
~*~*~*~*~
** John **
My would-be executioners have opened the portal twice more, arguing loudly both times about whose fault it is that I now know not to change forms. I consider telling them that I'm not actually a werewolf but I can't imagine that helping my situation.
It's obvious now that they deliberately set things up to drive werewolves beyond endurance. That way the humans have the excuse of self defense when the werewolf ends up dead. I suspect being able to hand over the fur-covered corpse with wickedly sharp claws and teeth showing is proof enough that they were in fear of their lives.
But I also suspect they would make an exception for the human found in their proverbial net if they realize somebody fucked up big time. I hope that at least by not telling them I'm buying some time.
Not that it's going to do me much good.
To be rescued someone first needs to know I'm missing, and that seems pretty unlikely.
I work from home, I barely know my neighbors, and I'm not even sure I still have a boyfriend anymore. Nobody is going to notice I'm not where I should be for at least a few days. I laugh humorlessly as I realize my best chance of being missed is my nosey, elderly, mostly deaf neighbor who is always complaining at the monthly home-owners meetings. Even then she'll probably just call an emergency meeting to complain about how the van they drove me away in violated the building's visitor parking policy.
Hell, even if any of my neighbors saw it they'll just assume that I actually am an undeclared werewolf. I'm not well known enough for any of them to be concerned by my arrest or my absence.
No, my chances of being rescued are pretty much zero.
But in the middle of that depressing thought is the realization that I need to hold on. Judging by the irritation in my captors' voices there's a very good chance that no werewolf has ever endured the treatment I'm receiving. That means I have an obligation to survive this nightmare. Everyone needs to know the truth of what's going on here.
~*~*~*~*~
*** Darrick ***
I feel so helpless sitting here just watching Kelly put her life at risk in an attempt to rescue my mate. Despite knowing without a doubt that my presence—well-known to the authorities as a werewolf thanks to all the political rallies I've attended—would be the opposite of helping, the urge to tear apart the entire world to find my mate is very strong.
Thankfully Hunter's calm, competent, and unwavering support is helping me to stave off the need to shift fully into my werewolf form. I need to stay in control if I want to have any hope of helping my mate and the woman trying to find him.
"Kelly's back online," Hunter says, nudging me gently and giving me a sympathetic look. He hasn't bothered to offer me platitudes or false hope. We both know how cruel this world can be.
I nod and turn my attention back to the bobbing camera feed that shows Kelly and a couple of others walking toward what seems to be an ordinary barn. They enter the building unchallenged and wander down the long row of stalls most of which seem to be empty.
Some do contain animals though. The camera manages to capture a couple of horses, a cow, and a pen filled with what seems to be a mixture of goats and sheep. I can just imagine how strong the smell would be for a werewolf's nose. If they are keeping werewolves somewhere near, the barn smells would certainly make tracking by scent very difficult.
"Oh, hello," a woman says as she steps out of one of the stalls. She seems relaxed and fr
iendly. "Can I help you with anything?"
She's wearing coveralls and gumboots that are flecked with various waste products and the offer to help seems genuine.
"Hi," one of Kelly's companions says, imitating the woman's friendliness. "My daughter has been begging me to get her a dog for her birthday. I was told you had some up for adoption."
"We certainly do," the woman says as she turns toward a door at the back of the barn. "The cats and dogs are through here."
This room is bigger and surprisingly noisy. It's a large enough contrast to suggest this part of the building has been sound proofed. I cross my fingers in hopes that it's evidence of something more sinister than just trying to keep the noise down for the neighbors.
"We've got thirteen dogs in residence at the moment," the woman says as they bypass the cages filled with loudly meowing cats and kittens. "Have you given any thought to the type of breed or dog size that would suit your lifestyle?"
"I was thinking something big and friendly. We live on a few acres so exercise won't be a problem."
"Well then I have just the dog for you," the woman says, her voice fading away as Kelly uses the distraction to wander deeper into the room. She quietly opens the door farthest away from where they'd come in and slips into the next room. It's just a storage area, countless wire cages stacked haphazardly alongside massive amounts of pet food. There doesn't seem to be another exit and my hope falters.
This facility is exactly what it seems—an animal refuge and rehousing facility, nothing more. I've already gone back to studying the map of the area trying to identify somewhere else that could be "a half hour's drive" from the police station when Hunter overrides the mute and contacts Kelly.
"Wait, Kelly, double back. I think I saw something."
Kelly slowly turns back the way she came, the camera view sliding over some of the larger wire cages when Kelly seems to notice the same thing that caught Hunter's attention.
"I'm pretty sure they don't handcuff dogs," she whispers, moving closer so that the camera can take in the details. By themselves the wide, heavy shackles aren't exactly damning evidence, but they do suggest that Kelly is in the right place. Something else must catch her attention because she is suddenly moving toward what seems to be the type of cellar doors usually found outside. They have two wide wooden doors lying almost horizontal to the ground. She does something that the camera can't interpret—perhaps getting closer to listen for sounds on the other side—before she tries to open one of the doors.