Wolf's Cage

by Laura Taylor

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. You’re looking for a conference centre, you say?”

  “That’s right. Do you have a brochure of your facilities? Or a website I could look at?”

  The man immediately took out a notebook. “Which company do you represent?” he asked, leaving Miller momentarily floundering for a reply. “Pacific Software Solutions,” he said, blurting out the first name that came to mind. “They’re based in America, but we’ve been looking at expanding into England.”

  “And how many people were you thinking of catering for?”

  Another painful pause as Miller’s mind raced. All he’d really been looking for was a brochure, something to legitimise this estate as a real business. He hadn’t even been able to see the manor so far, so any figure he put on the size of things would be a stab in the dark. The guy was just as likely to tell him they couldn’t cater for his needs, when what he really wanted was a guided tour of the place. “Thirty,” he guessed, waiting as the man jotted down more notes.

  “We’re generally fairly fully booked,” he said congenially, “but I can pass your details on to the manager and have someone call you. Do you know how long your booking would be?”

  “Something small,” Miller said, not wanting to get himself in too deep. “A weekend, maybe. Three days tops. Is there any chance I could talk to the manager now?” This man was clearly not the one in charge, and if he was connected to the shifters, he hadn’t shown up on any of their intel reports. His face was totally unfamiliar.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the man said, “but the conference centre is closed for the summer-”

  “Or do you have a website I could look at?”

  The man shook his head. “Most of our bookings are done through an agency, so we don’t tend to advertise directly. But if you’d like to leave a card, I can get the manager to call you when she returns.”

  “Any chance I could have a look around while I’m here? I won’t take long, I just want to check the meeting rooms are big enough, maybe look at one or two bedrooms?”

  “I’m sorry sir, but I’m just the caretaker for the summer,” the man said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I’m not authorised to take visitors through. But if you leave your details, I’ll be sure to pass them along.”

  “James Gardner,” Miller repeated, then rattled off a random phone number, not really caring if anyone called back or not. The place was deserted, and this guy seemed more than willing to actually try and make a booking for him. That crossed it off his list on two counts – firstly, a shifter den wouldn’t be open to the public on any terms, regardless of the season, and secondly, he didn’t think the entire pack was likely to just up and leave for extended periods of time. Where the hell would they go? The emptiness of the place confirmed his suspicions that he was once again wasting his time here.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said to the caretaker, then climbed back into his car, crossing yet another name off his seemingly endless list. Next stop, a farming property down the road.

  Sean Dalton watched the Noturatii agent drive away and glanced down at the description of the man he’d written on his notepad, along with the man’s ramblings about a supposed ‘booking’ for the estate. A retired cop, Sean was one of less than a dozen humans in the world who knew the truth about the shifters. The dozen who weren’t members of the Noturatii, that was. He’d done the shifters a few favours, back before he’d retired, helping them out before he’d known what they really were, and then he’d stumbled across the truth in a set of bizarre circumstances several years ago, just before he’d retired, shocked as he’d attended a reported shooting, only to find himself in the middle of a firefight, scrambling for his radio to call for back up, before he’d dropped the thing as one of the men had turned into the largest wolf he’d ever seen right in front of his eyes. Minutes later, with dead bodies all around him, he’d got on his knees and begged for his life as Baron, that huge brute of a man, had pointed a gun at his head and apologised for having to shoot him.

  Somehow they’d found an amicable solution, though in truth, Sean didn’t remember much of the conversation, too busy trying to wrap his head around the impossible things he’d seen, half convinced he was dreaming, while his mind raced to find a reason for them to let him live. His first grandchild had just been born, he’d rambled, he was due for retirement in a few months, he’d steadfastly supported the shifters in their various questionable activities throughout his career. He’d unknowingly met several of them throughout the years and, considering himself to be an excellent judge of character, had decided along the way that they were fighting on the side of good. They’d been operating outside the law, certainly, but Sean was experienced enough to know that not everything outside the law was outside the limits of morality. Perhaps they were fighting international sex slavery, he’d reasoned to himself, a worthy cause that would draw the attention of some violent opposition. Or perhaps they were helping illegal immigrants. Sean had been to Sudan in his younger days, had seen the horrors the people there had experienced first hand, and as a result, he had a soft spot for those seeking out a better life away from the threat of death or imprisonment. So he’d looked the other way, made a few unusual investigations disappear, and received heartfelt thanks in return.

  That pledge of loyalty had, in the end, earned him the right to continue breathing, and he’d stumbled away, resolved to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open. Months later, he’d received a most unusual phone call, offering him a short summer job, caretaker for the estate while the shifters temporarily went… somewhere else. He’d asked no questions, filed no reports, told his wife he was going ‘fishing’, and hightailed it up here for a couple of weeks, eager to continue helping those who had spared his life, and brimming with curiosity to know more about this bizarre quirk of nature.

  It was now his fifth year looking after the estate for the group, but never before had he met one of their enemies quite so up close and personal.

  For a moment there, he’d considered simply shooting the Noturatii man, Baron having explained the bare bones of their conflict in a way that made Sean want to hunt down every single Noturatii operative and shoot them himself. Damned blind, bigoted fools. In this case, there had been just the one man. There was no one else he could see in the car, and shooting him was a quick, simple solution to the problem literally knocking at the shifters’ door.

  But then he’d rethought the impulsive plan. Perhaps this agent had brought backup that was waiting further down the road. Perhaps his car was fitted with a GPS tracker that would lead the Noturatii right to their doorstep. Tempting as it was to simply kill him, there were a dozen things that could go wrong that would make this situation even worse for the shifters. So Sean had played the part, taken notes, and let him walk away.

  For now.

  He pulled out his phone as he reached the manor. First things first. He ducked into the sitting room where a temporary security office was set up, and checked that the perimeter electric fence was live. Hidden just inside the stone wall, it would provide a nasty surprise for any overzealous operatives who tried to do a little snooping. That, combined with the motion sensors, set to sound the alarm if anything bigger than a squirrel moved out there, was the first line of defence while the shifters were off the premises.

  That task seen to, he dialled Baron’s number, waiting impatiently for the man to pick up the phone. When he did, he sounded out of breath, like he’d been running. “What?”

  Sean didn’t bother introducing himself. Baron would know who was calling from the number alone. He glanced out the window again, checking no one was trying to sneak up the drive. “Bad news, sir. We’ve just had a visit from the Noturatii.”

  Baron hung up from his call with Sean, turning to the anxious faces all around him. The topic of the conversation had been easy to pick up from his startled questions and alarmed tone, and Caroline, Tank and Andre had quickly taken note, leaving their preparations in the foyer of the manor t
o gather around, waiting eagerly for an explanation for the tense call.

  But rather than explaining the situation, Baron instead thrust a small piece of paper at Caroline, a phone number written on it. “Call this number,” he told her, knowing that Sean had told the man at the gate that the manager of the estate was a woman. “Ask for James Gardner. Apparently he wants to book Misty Hills for a conference, so find out what he wants, then tell him we’re booked out.”

  “Noturatii?” Caroline asked, tapping the number into her phone, and Baron nodded.

  “Most likely. I just want to know if this number’s legit or not.”

  Less than a minute later, they had their answer. The woman who had answered the phone had never heard of James Gardner, and Caroline apologised and hung up.

  “Wrong number,” she said with a frown. “What the hell is going on?”

  Baron explained it briefly, grateful that the estate was being watched by an ex-cop. Sean had an eye for detail and knew how to deal with unexpected situations. “From Sean’s description, it sounds like our visitor was the guy we met in the lab. The black one, who was with Melissa.” Most of the people they’d met before they’d blown up the lab were now dead, but those two in particular they knew were probably still alive. Tank let out a growl, holding a very personal grudge against the man, and then Silas arrived at his side, having overheard the last part of the conversation. He took a seat without a word, expression grim, ready to lend whatever help was needed.

  “Sean’s fairly sure the guy just went away,” Baron went on, “but he’s going to keep an eye out, just to be sure. If this was just a scouting mission, we might be in the clear, but if we start getting repeat visits, we could be in deep shit.”

  “What I want to know,” Tank said, “is why the hell are they sniffing around our neck of the woods anyway? We’ve always done our business in the east, in Grey Watch territory. How did they find out we’re in the Lakes District?”

  “Could be a number of things,” Silas pointed out. “They have some of us on file. Dee. Tank. Caroline. Could be facial recognition software. Could be someone canvassing the neighbourhood with photos to see if any of the locals recognise us. Could be that the Noturatii have just finally got their act together and started doing their jobs.” The news was unwelcome, but hiding from it wouldn’t do them any good.

  “Can Skip still get into their system?” Caroline asked. Skip had successfully hacked the Noturatii’s database earlier in the year, but there was no guarantee they hadn’t upgraded their systems since then.

  “She can still get in,” Baron said, “but I don’t like to ask her to do it unless it’s an emergency. Every time we mess with their system, there’s a good chance we’ll get caught.”

  “I think this qualifies as an emergency,” Andre said, and Baron nodded reluctantly.

  “Yeah. I’ll ask her to take a look around, see what she can find.”

  Silas let out a snort. “So Skip’s going to hack their system to see if they’re hacking ours? God, I just love technology.”

  Baron turned to Andre. “Can you call the Council? Tell them Misty Hills may have been compromised? If things go south, we’re going to need help , and we’re going to need it fast.”

  “On it,” Andre replied quickly. “And here’s an idea. Since we’re more or less stuck here for the time being, I could ask for a couple of assassins to head over to the estate. Take a look around. See if anything’s going on that shouldn’t be.”

  Baron nodded, grateful for Andre’s insight. He should have thought of that himself. “I’ll call Sean and tell him he’s going to be having a few visitors. I don’t like the idea of him being left there on his own anyway, not with the Noturatii hanging around. But make sure the assassins know he’s there. I don’t want anyone getting shot by mistake.”

  “He knows what a Council brand looks like?” Andre asked.

  “He will in a few minutes. And tell Simon I’m going to want a review of our security cameras the instant we get home,” Baron told Silas. “No one threatens my home and gets away with it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Andre sat in the main meeting hall, listening to Caroline address the gathered shifters, completing the formal welcome to the visitors for this year.

  There had been a few arguments in the corridors as all the shifters settled in, disagreements over status or who was entitled to which rooms, but nothing serious had resulted aside from a few heated words, no one resorting to physical violence or challenges in wolf form. He’d also heard of Skip’s encounter with the Russian recruits, Tank having exchanged a few strong words with the more senior Russians about acceptable behaviour, and the ranking wolf from one of their Dens had pulled the pair aside, firstly scolding them for their behaviour, and then assigning them to cleaning duties for the duration of the Densmeet, the pair now expected to wash the kitchen floor and clean the toilets daily. All things considered, it was a relatively peaceful beginning to the summer season.

  “I’d like to commence the formal discussions,” Caroline was saying, “by asking each Den to report on their experiences with the Noturatii this year. We have lost a number of good wolves, but also landed some solid victories against our enemies.” She waited while those fluent in English translated the words for their Den mates, then turned towards the group of French shifters. “Henri? Would you like to begin?”

  “Before we get started on the reports,” a voice interrupted her, and everyone looked around to see Marianne, the female alpha from the Norwegian Den, on her feet, “I would like to raise an issue that is of concern to many of us here today. Rumours have reached us of a new addition to your Den this year. Dee Carman. Also known as Fenrae-Ul, the Destroyer.”

  A wave of muttering filled the room, a predictable response to what many shifters considered to be a serious threat, and Andre waited with interest to see how Caroline would react.

  “What exactly is it that you wish to know?” Caroline asked, with absolute calm.

  “Is it true?” Marianne asked, glancing around the room for the mysterious Dee. “Is she able to separate us from our wolf side?”

  Caroline looked over to Dee, seated beside Mark, and Dee gave her a tiny nod. She got up and came forward, standing nervously in front of the group.

  “Good morning, everyone. I’m Dee Carman. I joined Il Trosa last year, after I was kidnapped by the Noturatii and converted in one of their labs. What you’ve heard is true – I was not able to merge with my wolf. She considers herself to be an independent being, quite separate from me, and over the winter, we discovered that we do indeed have the ability to separate human from wolf. I have done so twice – once to a member of the Grey Watch who was attempting to kill me…” That brought another round of muttering, and Dee waited patiently for it to subside. “…and once at the request of Andre, the Council’s emissary. Another woman was converted in the Noturatii lab, against her will, and was at risk of turning rogue, so I was asked to remove the wolf side of her to prevent her from going mad. I have never attempted to use my abilities on any other shifter, and frankly, I have no desire to.”

  There was a burst of words in French, and then Annabelle spoke up. “Sabine has asked about your wolf,” she said diffidently, translating the words though she seemed uncomfortable with the question itself. “If she is separate from you, what is to stop her lashing out and killing us all?”

  To her credit, Dee took the question with respectful calm. “Faeydir thinks that-”

  “Faeydir?” someone interrupted.

  “The name my wolf is known by,” Dee said, which caused an eruption of protests.

  “Faeydir was our creator, our origin,” people shouted angrily. “You dishonour her name by using it for this creature of destruction!”

  Caroline shouted for silence, waiting until the room was in order before speaking. “Faeydir’s name was chosen for her when we first discovered that Dee and her wolf were two separate beings. That was long before we learned the truth of h
er abilities. It is a name. Nothing more.”

  “Faeydir sees Il Trosa as her home and her family,” Dee went on, when the room was quiet. “She understands that there is sometimes the need for violence in our lives, but she has never had any quarrel with Il Trosa or the Council, and she has no intention of harming you in any way.”

  “So you say,” one of the Russians said angrily. “But we have only your word that that is the case.”

  “The Council has assessed Dee, and does not regard her to be a serious threat.” Caroline snapped. “Andre has their report available if you’d like to read it for yourselves. They have invited Dee to Italy to conduct a more thorough assessment, but they have expressed no serious concerns about either her behaviour or her abilities for the time being. For my own part, I have spent half a year with her, and know her to be one of the most gentle, kind and compassionate shifters I have ever met. Her wolf is unusual, to be sure, but she has made no sign of aggression towards either our Den or other shifters. She has followed our rules, respected our laws and gone out of her way to assist us when and where it was required. And as far as I’m concerned, that says far more about her intentions towards us than any prophecy written thousands of years ago in what is now a dead language.”

  “I think it would be wise,” Nikolai spoke up from the back of the room, his English stilted in his heavy accent, “to take some time to get to know Dee. This is not the sort of thing we are going to solve overnight. Take a few days. Speak with Dee yourselves. Then we can talk about this more.”

  Reluctant agreement rumbled across the room, and Caroline nodded to Dee, who returned to her seat so that the rest of the meeting could continue.

  Andre sat back, pleased, though not entirely surprised by Caroline’s handling of the issue. It would have been easy to duck responsibility, simply announcing that the Council had assessed Dee and accepted her into Il Trosa, and left it at that. It was a valid argument, and one that the other shifters would have had to accept, but it also sidestepped the larger issue, and would have made life more difficult for Dee. At least this way, while the other shifters weren’t exactly welcoming her, they had been challenged to investigate the issue more thoroughly before jumping to conclusions. Which gave Dee the firm chance to win some of them over.