by Kelly Meding
Wyatt leads us straight for it.
Both stores on either side have been blacked out. The center was probably a trendy clothing store at one time, with a blacked-out glass exterior and an entrance the size of a pair of double doors. We follow Wyatt inside. All three stores have been combined into one huge space. To our left, partitioned by a row of folding screens, is a long conference table and chairs. At least a dozen people—Therian and vampire—move around, doing their work and ignoring us.
“Welcome to Operations,” Wyatt says. “The name’s pretty self-explanatory.”
It is. I can’t help being impressed by what they’ve pulled together in less than a month, and this is only one room.
Kyle appears with Astrid in tow. She gives each of us—me, Kismet, Milo—a careful once-over that’s assessing without being violating. To Wyatt she asks, “Where’s Mr. Baylor?”
“Coming in with Leah,” he replies. “They’ll be along in about an hour.”
She frowns. I don’t think she’s happy with the decision to make Adrian Baylor the human representative in the leadership trifecta, but it’s a compromise that secured the loyalty of the rest of the Handlers and their Hunters. Kismet didn’t want it, and several folks, led by Sharpe, objected to placing Wyatt in charge, given his record of recent behavior. Wyatt seemed annoyed at first but quickly adapted to the idea. Baylor is a good leader, and he knows better than to try to control Wyatt.
“The construction materials you requested will arrive shortly,” Astrid says.
“For the maze?” Wyatt asks, a spark of excitement in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Maze?” Kismet says.
He turns to her, smiling. “Remember how you helped us design the obstacle course we used at Boot Camp? You gave us all those ideas from your Army training.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to do the same thing in the old Sears building, at the west end of the mall.” The delight in his voice is amusing and something I haven’t heard in a long time. “Actually, I was hoping you’d take a look at the plans and give me your input.”
Kismet’s eyebrows arch. “Sure, okay.”
He strides to a computer several desks away, then waves her over. She hesitates, then goes, tossing a look over her shoulder that clearly says she didn’t think he meant right now. Astrid wanders off. I glance at Milo, and his expression mirrors what my own must be. Now what?
We’re some of the first humans to be brought inside the Watchtower—I’m not crazy about the name, but it works—and I’m not a hundred percent comfortable wandering around on my own. Yet.
A shadow shifts behind me, and I spin. Marcus stands close by, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his well-fitted jeans. His black hair, usually tied back, is loose and hangs well below his shoulders. He smiles, glinting eyes shifting back and forth between us before settling on Milo. “Would you two be interested in a guided tour?” he asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” Milo replies. He’s even more tense than I am.
“Definitely,” I amend. Marcus and Astrid have a history with Tybalt—whose inclusion in this little unit was part of Kismet’s terms of agreement—and I’m insanely curious about it. Tybalt told me once that he chose his name because of its Shakespeare association. Prince of Cats. Knowing that both Marcus and Astrid are Felia is a fascinating clue into the life of a Hunter with whom I’ve become friends, despite our violent history.
In the main corridor, a quartet of black-clad vampires strides past us, practically marching in step, heading toward the east end of the mall. One gives Marcus a cursory nod; the rest ignore us.
“That was slightly awkward,” Milo says.
“As it will continue to be for a while longer,” Marcus replies. “Our three peoples aren’t natural allies.”
“Good point.”
“We don’t have much at the west end yet,” he says, pointing without leading. “Two stores are being used as a gymnasium, as well as a room for physical combat training. We have a good amount of equipment already set up and are expecting more. In time, the department store will be redesigned as an obstacle course, but for now it’s simply under construction.”
“Segregated gym?” I ask.
His nostrils flare. “No, all are welcome to use it.”
“Awesome.”
“The Sanctuary is also this way, as you probably know, Miss Stone.”
“Good lord, please call me Evy or Stone. Not Miss.” It makes me feel like a schoolteacher.
“The vampires keep a guard on the Sanctuary at all times. Not that I suspect you’d have any reason to access it, but I’m informing you nonetheless.”
“Appreciated.”
“Most of the activity happens on the east end right now.” He leads us in that direction. The first entrance on the opposite side of Operations has a fancy keypad next to a heavy, reinforced door. “This is weapons storage. Only a handful of people have the lock code, although I expect you’ll both be given it at some point.”
Nice to have his vote of confidence.
As we walk, I notice that some of the store windows are papered over. A few are open and in various stages of construction. Marcus doesn’t comment on what they’ll eventually be used for, and I don’t ask. Some tour guide. We near the end of the corridor, where it turns ninety degrees to the right. Straight ahead is the food court, and even from here I can see the rows of tables and booths, neatly ordered and clean, and half a dozen people seated.
“This is the Rec Room,” Marcus says, pointing to the left. “Right now it’s two rooms, one of which has a television for playing games and the other for movies. We’re working on a library for those who prefer quieter methods of relaxation.”
“Cool,” Milo says, peeking inside.
“Here on the right are the vampire quarters.”
I quirk an eyebrow at this.
“Before you ask, they asked for the separate quarters,” Marcus says. “Vampires require very little sleep compared to our two peoples, and they prefer much cooler climates when they rest.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I say.
The vampire quarters seemed to take up two stores, one entrance facing our corridor, the other down the east wing. Marcus goes this way. The remaining stores on both sides are sealed over with a single entrance on either side of the corridor. He points at the side neighboring the food court.
“Quarters for everyone else,” he says. “They’re divided into walled units that currently house two sets of bunk beds each, and curtains acting as doorways. There isn’t much in the way of privacy. It’s very dormitory-style.”
Milo catches my eye and we’re probably thinking the same thing—Boot Camp. The setup for trainees there was very similar to this, living on top of each other knowing you’d probably have to kill your roommate in order to graduate alive. It’s also very similar to Juvie, and that makes my insides squirm.
“We’re working on more private quarters for those of us with higher ranks, but it’s not a priority at the moment,” he continues. “There are still quite a few empty rooms, though, so pick one and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Showers and toilets are across the hall there.” He tilts his head toward the storefront on the other side, this one carefully covered over to create privacy. “It’s been the largest project so far, what with installing all that plumbing and putting down sealed cement. But don’t worry, it’s not a group shower.”
My sense of relief at this news is palpable. “Thank God for that.”
Marcus grins. “I can’t imagine you have anything to be ashamed of.”
“No, just a missing finger and too many visible ribs,” I deadpan. My appetite is mostly back, but even on my high-protein, carb-heavy diet, the weight isn’t packing back on as quickly as I’d prefer. It’s been only five days since my return to the city, but I still feel too damned frail, and I hate it.
The department store capping this end of the wing is blocked off, the door sealed. “What’s go
ing in there?” Milo asks.
“So far, nothing,” Marcus says. “However, if our efforts succeed and expansion is necessary, we hope it will become residences of a more permanent and comfortable sort.”
Interesting. And if he doesn’t consider all the alterations to the mall to be permanent, I’d hate to see his definition of the word “temporary.” “Just so we don’t step on any toes,” I say, “are there any restrictions on where we can go? Besides the Sanctuary?”
Marcus shakes his head no. “Although I would knock before entering the vampires’ quarters.”
“Duly noted.”
“Are the training areas open?” Milo asks.
“Certainly,” Marcus replies.
Without prompting, he pivots gracefully. I watch him as he walks, noting that every step is both graceful and powerful—the very definition of a large, predatory cat. I don’t know which cat, specifically, but I know he’s not a house kitty. Jaguar, maybe, given the black hair.
In my ever-expanding knowledge of the Clans and how to identify them, so far only the Felia and Cania have hair that reflects their animal coat. Which is probably not a bad thing. You can’t exactly tell a stranger that your child has shockingly white hair because they can shift into a polar bear. Not that the multihued bear hair is easy to explain.
The mall’s main corridor is about the length of two football fields, with each wing less than fifty yards long. Not huge by mall standards (maybe a third the size of the new mall), but pretty damned big by headquarters standards. We lucked out getting it—considering the amount of space and the ease of protecting it from enemies—but walking from one end to the other on a regular basis is going to get exhausting.
And I’m already out of shape. I regulate my breathing so I’m not panting by the time we reach the gym. It’s impressive, with its array of equipment for cardio, strength training, and general exercise. An entrance to a second room has been cut out of the wall, and beyond it are blue mats. It’s a good setup.
Two men I don’t recognize, both with pale green eyes and the same multihued brown hair as Leah, are spotting each other on the free weights. They greet Marcus by name.
“Jackson, Shelby,” Marcus replies, although I have no idea which is which. Just a sneaking suspicion they’re both Ursia. He introduces us.
The man who was spotting takes a step closer, staring at me intently. “Stone,” he repeats.
I tense, shifting both feet into a fighting stance. It’s instinct, and he notices. Stops heading toward me.
He smiles. “Jackson de Loew. I’m Leah’s mate. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“It is?” I blurt.
“Your reputation among the Clans is colorful, but what you did for Phineas el Chimal is … well, legendary, for lack of a better word.”
“Phin was my friend.” I fall back on a familiar refrain. Praise for doing my job isn’t something I take well, and, thankfully, Jackson seems to get the hint.
“All the same, I’m glad to be working with you.” He returns to his friend Shelby, who hasn’t stopped staring but also hasn’t directly acknowledged me or Milo. Guess I haven’t impressed everyone.
Milo clears his throat. “The gym’s great. With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had a good workout in ages.”
“You don’t consider Sunday to be a good workout?” I ask, caught between amusement and surprise.
He gives me a baleful look. “I was thinking more along the lines of improving mobility and fighting skills, and less battling for my life.”
“Good point. The barbells don’t usually fight back.”
“That removes some of the fun, don’t you think?” Marcus asks. One corner of his mouth quirks up, and I swear there’s an amused glint in his eyes. “You spar?”
He isn’t asking me, and it takes Milo a moment to realize it. “Boxing? No, not really.”
I manage to keep surprise off my face. He knows how to fight as well as I do, but I don’t contradict him. Not in front of a cat and two bears.
“Wrestling?” Marcus asks.
“Some.”
Some? Learning basic holds, pins, and throws was part of Boot Camp training. We all took the course. I remember all the moves and can re-create them all in my mind, but even if I wasn’t in such poor shape, I’d hesitate to try wrestling in this new body before it’s properly trained. Especially not wrestling against a were-cat who outweighs me by a good fifty pounds.
“Great.” Marcus strips out of his T-shirt without ceremony, showing off a ripped torso and tanned skin. I know my jaw dropped. “Let’s go, then.” He strides toward the far end of the room and the archway into the matted area. He pauses there and looks back, grinning right at Milo. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
“Uh, no?” Milo says.
I lift a shoulder in a half shrug, offering him no help. His own attempt at reverse psychology didn’t get him out of it. He responds by sticking his tongue out at me, then following Marcus. I laugh. Sometimes I forget how young we both still are.
Okay, maybe Milo more than me. He’s legitimately twenty years old. I was twenty-two when I died almost three months ago. The body I have now is twenty-seven—a five-year gap physically, but my emotional and mental ages are playing catch-up. Still, I manage to not flip Milo the bird as I trail behind the pair, curious about how this impromptu wrestling match will turn out.
Both men are in jeans, which aren’t ideal for wrestling, but I bet that neither is going to strip down to his boxers. Or briefs. Or whatever. Milo follows Marcus’s lead and takes off his own T-shirt. He’s got a fairly average build, lean, with muscles hinted at beneath his tanned skin without being obvious or bulked up. An odd pattern of faint, pencil-thin scars checkerboard his back and shoulders—a peek into his past and a story I don’t know.
Marcus notes them, I think, with a flare of his nostrils, then redirects his attention to the fight. Physically, Milo is no match for Marcus. Strategically … well, we’re going to find out.
I lean against the wall to watch.
The first round goes as expected—the bigger, stronger Marcus has Milo on his back in less than ten seconds. They reengage. Marcus pins him again, but this time it takes longer. As Milo rolls up off the mat, he flashes me a confident grin.
We’ve also gained an audience. Shelby and Jackson stand by the wall opposite me, smirking. I bite my lower lip, confident the tables are about to turn.
Round three ratchets up my respect for Milo. Now that he’s tested Marcus’s strength and maneuvers, Milo adjusts his own movements to compensate. He skillfully rolls and ducks, easily avoiding the larger, slightly slower were-cat bearing down on him. Marcus lunges. Milo twists away. It’s an amusing dance that’s lasted more than a minute already.
Marcus turns again, and I catch a glimpse of his face. His teeth are bared like any predator, but he’s smiling. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was on the verge of laughter. Milo seems equally amused—enjoying the challenge.
“Come on, Marcus, pin the child,” Shelby says.
Milo flips him off without breaking concentration, and I snort laughter. Shelby growls. Milo pulls to his right, and Marcus compensates—perhaps anticipating it as a feint. Only Milo doesn’t feint. He keeps going around, twists, and ducks lower. His shoulder hits Marcus’s lower abdomen full-force.
In a move as graceful as a ballet dancer’s, Milo lifts Marcus up with his shoulder while anchoring him hands to ribs, and executes a perfect flip while falling backward. Both men land on their backs, Milo angled higher up so Marcus’s shoulders hit the mat at the same time. It’s a beautiful pin.
Milo rolls away, then comes up standing, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. I half expect him to crow a little over the victory, or at least smirk. He just watches Marcus with a comical wide-eyed innocence as the larger man stands up, making a show of dusting himself off.
Jackson and Shelby are silent.
Marcus crosses well-toned arms over his chest. “You
must have made a fortune hustling pool,” he says with a grin.
Milo laughs.
After fetching my duffel bag from Wyatt’s car, I find one of the living quarters’ unoccupied cubicles. Staking a claim is easy enough—all I have to do is unpack. We officially abandoned the apartment on Cottage Place where I spent four years living and working with Jesse and Ash. The place is riddled with memories both wonderful and awful, and I’m torn about leaving it behind. Although I need the fresh start, it’s the only place I’ve ever really considered home.
Packing didn’t take long. My meager collection of clothes isn’t very useful after losing so much weight. I’ll need to go shopping soon. I hate shopping. Personal items consist of a laptop, a photo, and some hygiene stuff from the bathroom. I’ve never been one for sentimental things, and the fact that it took me five minutes to pack and half that to unpack is a little … sad.
The cubicles are impersonal and simple. Bunk beds with a trunk at the foot, and next to the head is a pair of small, two-drawer dressers. Assuming that one item belongs to each bed, I choose a trunk for myself and toss my things into it, then plunk my duffel bag onto the top bunk. I’ll figure out the linens later.
I stare at the crumpled blue duffel, a little lost as to what to do now.
“Evy?” Phin’s standing just outside the little room. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the group meeting on Sunday. He’s still paler than normal, and I wonder if—like me—he’s been forever changed by his ordeal at Thackery’s hands.
“Hey,” I say. “I didn’t know you were around.”
“I just got here a bit ago. Astrid told me your people will begin moving in soon.”
“Looks that way.”
“You know you don’t have to live here at the Watchtower. My offer of a room at the condo still stands.”
I offer him a grateful smile. “And I really do appreciate the offer, Phin, but I think I’d like to stay here. For a while I just want to be a little cog in a big wheel without the fate of the world resting on my own two shoulders.”
“Understandable and, I think, well deserved.”
“Thank you.”