by Sky Winters
Taking advantage of the chaos, the pack of shifters made their way towards the wrought-iron gates of the zoo. But as they approached, they saw that the remaining employees. A hardscrabble band of men with terrified expressions on their faces, wielding shovels, pitchforks, and flaming pieces of wood, stood like a line of troops at the defense.
But as the pack drew close, the fear in the men’s eyes gave way to pure terror, and before the shifters could rush over them completely, they dived out of the way, screaming and shrieking as they did.
The pack was then beyond the gates and as they returned to the silence and still air, they stopped and shifted back into their human forms.
“Now what?” asked one of the Italian men.
“We split up,” said one of the Slavic. “Arrangement was only for escape. Now we go our separate ways.”
The taller dark-skinned man nodded.
“We will find a place for our people in this city,” he said, his arms crossed over his strong, taut chest. “Once we are settled, we can call others from our homelands.”
“Then we should claim parts of the city now,” said one of the Italians.
“Yes,” said one of the dark-skinned men. “We will take the place called Harlem, in the north. Some of our countrymen already live there.”
Two Slavic men convened for a moment before one stepped forward.
“The eastern side of the island will be ours; they call it the ‘East Village,’ I believe.”
“No,” said one of the dark women, stepping forward. “That is the part of the island that we wish to lay claim to.”
One of the Ukrainian women jumped out from the group and faced the woman who had just spoken.
“If you wish to fight over territory, I’m more than happy to start tonight.”
“Please. You are a fool if you think we Senegalese fear you.”
“I’ll give you something to fear.”
“Enough!” called out one of the Senegalese men. “You may take this village, but in return, we lay claim to the entirety of the neighborhood of Harlem. No Italian or Ukrainian shall impede on this territory.”
The two women started at each other, neither wanting to back down.
“Fine,” said the Senegalese woman. “Harlem is ours. Challenge it and risk your life.”
The Italians had a quick parley of their own before one stepped forward.
“And we will move to the lower tip of Manhattan. It is already a home for Italians, and we should easily be able to find our place.”
“I don’t know if I’m too thrilled about the Italians taking up a home so close to our neighborhood,” said one of the Ukrainians.
“No one said you had to like it, fool,” said one of the Italians.
“I grow tired of these negotiations,” said the Ukrainian man. “I will say this: If you even think about coming into our home, you will regret it. I swear this.”
“Your threats mean nothing to me,” said the Italian, clenching his fists.
“You know what?” said the Ukrainian. “I think we should settle this now, after all. We can fight now. Whoever wins can have the whole damn island.”
“That sounds fine to me,” said the Italian.
“And me as well,” said the largest of the Senegalese.
The three packs split into tight groups, each of the dozens of shifters staring at one another, all of them waiting for someone to make the first move.
Off in the distance, the low wailing of police sirens could be heard. The packs all looked at one another, knowing that if they were to stay and fight, the police would be upon them.
“It appears we’ll have to settle this some other night,” said one of the Italians.
“I’m sure we will have more than enough opportunities,” said one of the Senegalese women.
“Stay out of Little Italy if you value your lives,” said one of the Italian women to the rest of the shifters, before departing, her group following her into the night.
“And you,” said the Senegalese man. “Never come to Harlem.” They departed into the swirling fog.
Then the Ukrainians made their own escape.
And that evening, in the chilly fog of Central Park, an agreement born out of conflict would turn into an informal pact that would hold strong for over a century. The Senegalese would lay claim to Harlem, in the area that would soon be known as Le Petite Senegal, bringing in dozens of their tiger-shifting countrymen and women over the coming decades. The Ukrainians would claim the East Village, bringing in their own people and growing wealthy and powerful as the land they owned grew in value. And the Italians claimed Little Italy, taking up residence in the area that would be known as Nolita.
A relative peace existed for a great while, though not without some conflict. But now, in the 21st century, events would unfold that would threaten to destroy the fabric of this delicate peace, and change the city forever.
CHAPTER 2
New York, New York – Present Day
“Good evening, New York!” shouted Boris Trotsky into the microphone, his eyes on the packed, teeming crowd of the rock venue. “We. Are. Blood. And. Claw!”
With a quick upstroke, he raked his guitar pick over the strings of his instrument, a crunching, distorted guitar chord blasting from the massive speaker towers behind him, drowning out the wild cheering of the crowd. His eyes scanned the room as the feedback from the chord droned. As usual, the front row was filled with young women all looking up at him with seductive eyes, waiting for him to cast a spell with his songs.
But none of them was the woman he was looking for.
To Boris’s right, Ivan Dragovich, the bassist, began plucking at the fat strings of his instrument, a staccato, marching bassline thrumming from the speakers. Aran Popov at the drumkit clacked his sticks together, and Boris cast his eyes over the eager crowd one last time, still looking for that same girl.
He smirked to himself as he fingered the strings of his crimson guitar, preparing to launch into the lead riff of the song. Boris knew she was here somewhere, and he’d find her one way or another.
The instruments came together in a deafening collision of music, the volume and speed of the sound blasting out of the speakers with such power that Boris felt as though the walls of the club might come down. Switching from the intro riff to a distorted power chord progression, Boris stepped closer to the mic, his mouth directly before it.
“A silver moon is a secret eye/a devil’s coin in a pallid sky.”
The crowd went wild as soon as Boris began to sing, his voice the perfect blend of gruff and masculine mixed with clear and melodic.
This was Blood and Claw’s third show of the week at the Gramercy, and each evening’s performance packed more and more fans onto the floor of the venue. As one of the hottest bands in the New York rock scene, there seemed to be no limit to their popularity.
“A winter wind through the copper sand/the demon’s kin unfurls his hand.”
With a quick glance to the rest of the band, Boris shifted the tempo of the song, slowing down but maintaining the crushing pulse of the music. He lifted his fingers from the strings, letting the tribal rhythm of the drum and bass lure the audience into a trance-like state.
Boris looked over the crowd yet again and, like before, did not see her. But as he shifted his gaze to the back of the venue, towards the faraway corner illuminated by soft, orange light, he caught glimpse of her. He’d know that body anywhere- those willowy limbs, that fair skin, that cropped, hair as red as blood. It was her.
His prey spotted, Boris returned his nimble fingers to the strings, preparing to begin the show-stopping solo. And as he plucked the first notes, the crowd going silent as he did, he had one thing and one thing only on his mind.
Her.
The interplay of the guitar, bass, and drums reached a fevered, crashing intensity. Boris’s skin, hot from both the stage lights and his playing, was wet with a thin sheen of sweat. The drums switched to double-time, Ivan began droni
ng on the same low, pounding bass note, and Boris’s fingers danced on the high, thin strings, screaming as he plucked them. They continued in this fashion, the eyes of the crowd on them, all in the same trance.
Then, with a series of three slams on a heavy, deep chord, coordinated with the bass and the drums, the song, and the set, ended.
“Thank you, Gramercy!” shouted Boris into the mic, his body was that intoxicated combination of spent and energized that always followed a strong set.
The crowd went wild with applause as the bright white of the house lights filled the room, wreathing the outlines of the members of the band in an ethereal glow.
But Boris had a new concern. His narrowed eyes scanned the crowd for her once more, landing on her in that same faraway place where she had been. But unlike before, where she seemed to be more interested in the conversation with those she came with, her eyes now met his. A small smile crossed his lips, knowing that the game was on.
He set his guitar onto his stand, and flashed a finger-spread open palm to his bandmates, signaling “five minutes.” They nodded, their faces almost stupefied with the thrill of a set performed perfectly.
Crouching down and stepping from the stage, Boris walked through the crowd of adoring fans, their hands outstretched as if hoping for a mere touch of his skin. The women in the front row signaled their interest with sultry, burning eyes and coy smiles. But Boris was single-minded.
The crowd spread apart as he walked, as though he were a returning, conquering king. The girl, his target, was now a few feet away, and met his eyes with an expectant gaze as he approached. Boris closed the last bit of distance between him and the girl, stopping only when he was inches away from her.
“Hell of a set,” she said, her fingertip on the end of the slim, red straw of her drink.
“Thanks,” he said, turning to the bartender and signaling for a pair of drinks.
“Boris Trotsky,” she said, as though trying the name on for size, her limpid blue eyes looking away is if in thought.
“And I don’t even know your first name,” he said. But he did.
“Mona,” she said. “Mona Allegra.”
“Mona Allegra,” said Boris. “Are you here by yourself, Mona Allegra?”
“I’m not,” she said, the bartender handing her and Boris a drink. “I’m with that big guy, right over there.”
With a languidly-raised finger, Mona gestured towards a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black undershirt and flashy, designer jeans. His hair was jet black and his skin was the same porcelain as Mona’s. Intricate tattoos snaked up and down his massive, muscular arms.
“Big guy, indeed,” said Boris, taking a sip from the cool bottle of beer in his hand.
“My brother,” she said. “Very protective.”
Boris threw another glance at her brother. Just like Mona, he knew who this man was. He knew exactly who he was. It was Giovanni Allegra, the man who was responsible for the death of Boris’s beloved girlfriend. He was the reason why Boris was even speaking to this girl, Mona.
“Seems to be slacking on his duties if a guy like me can slip past.”
“He gets distracted easily,” said Mona.
Sure enough, Giovanni’s attention seemed to be occupied at the moment by a pair of young women who were looking up at him as he spoke with a loud voice and punchy gesticulations. A loud, barking laugh erupted from the trio, Giovanni’s carrying across the venue.
“I can see that,” said Boris.
“And what kind of guy are you exactly, Mr. Trotsky?” asked Mona, that same coy smile playing on her face.
“The kind of guy who wants to get you out of here,” said Boris.
“Oh? And what did you have in mind?” she asked, intrigued.
“Somewhere I can get to know you a little better without a pair of watchful eyes looking us over.”
“Very well. You lead, I’ll follow.”
Boris turned, gesturing for Mona to follow, a smirk on his full lips.
“This might be easier than I thought,” thought Boris to himself as they weaved through the dense crowd, the next phase of his plan clear in his mind.
CHAPTER 3
The house music throbbed as Boris led Mona through the tightly-packed crowd, the faces of Boris’s fans lighting up as he passed.
“Popular boy,” said Mona, staying close enough to Boris that she could feel the heat radiating from the bare skin of his ropy arms.
“I suppose you could say that,” he said as they closed in on the door to the backstage area that he was leading her towards.
They reached it, and Boris pulled it open, revealing a dingy, narrow hallway with walls of black, chipped paint and worn posters advertising shows long since passed.
“I figured the backstage would be a little more…glamorous than this,” said Mona, looking around.
“They’re not much for frills here,” said Boris still leading her, now down the hallway towards a set of double doors.
But before they could reach them, the door to the green room opened to their right, the bright lights of the space flooding the dark hallway. And standing in the frame of the door was Ivan, a wide smile plastered on his face, his shaggy, brown hair falling on both sides of his features.
“Boris, there you are!” he said, his words uneven.
“Ivan,” said Boris, hiding his frustration at being distracted.
“Where’d you run off to, man?” Ivan asked. “We’re gonna party the fuck out of the green room before we gotta go. You in?”
Ivan moved his burly body to the side, revealing a medium-sized room lined with dirty couches of black leather. The couches were packed with groupies, as well as a few male hangers-on, all drinking and carousing. The glass table in the middle of the room was topped with a large pile of white powder which the partiers were all taking turns with. Loud, rock music blasted from a speaker in the corner of the room. Looking around, Boris could see Aran sitting on the couch, both arms over the slim shoulders of a pair of groupies.
“I think I’ll pass,” said Boris.
Ivan’s bleary eyes settled on Mona, and he looked her over with a blatant, sexual scan.
“Ah. Ah. I got ya,” he said, connecting a playful jab to Boris’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, my man.”
With that, he turned and headed back into the room.
“Don’t ash that fuckin’ cigarette in my beer, asshole!” were his last words before the door shut behind him, the blaring music from the speakers returning to a muffled din through the door.
“Charming man,” said Mona.
“Not the word I’d use, but to each her own,” he said.
The partying in the green room enticed Mona- it was a rare occasion that her brother let her out of the house- but she was still keen to follow Boris wherever he was taking her. She figured that Boris’s bandmate wasn’t too far off with his suggestion as to what Boris had in mind, but she didn’t want to say anything; it was more fun to just see how things played out.
They reached the double doors, which lead to a narrow stairwell that seemed to stretch up forever.
“That’s quite a hike,” she said, looking up.
“That’s why we’re taking the elevator,” said Boris, titling his head towards a small black door to their right.
He hit a button to the right of the door which slid open, revealing a small elevator car.
“After you,” said Boris.
With a coy smile, Mona stepped in, and Boris followed, hitting a button marked “R,” the door shutting behind him.
The elevator was small, cramped, and lit with a single, low light. Mona and Boris were packed in tightly, their bodies nearly touching. Boris said nothing as he looked into Mona’s eyes, letting the thrill of being with the lead singer of the band do the work for him. And as he watched Mona’s full lips part slightly, her teeth biting down on them sensually, he knew that he wouldn’t have to work very hard for what he wanted. And though Mona was merely an objective in a la
rger goal, he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. His eyes drifted down to the curves of her hips, her shapely legs which seemed on the verge of bursting from the black, skin-tight jeans they were in, the hint of her flat, toned stomach, and her cleavage which was exposed tantalizingly.
But before he could consider her body further, the doors slid open. Mona took in a small gasp as she saw where they were.
The scene before them was the stretch of the city, glittering white and orange with evening lights. They were on the roof of the building, the evening summer air warm and fresh on their skin. Boris stepped out of the elevator, beckoning for Mona to follow him.
She obeyed, following him onto the concrete expanse of the rooftop, the city backdrop unfolding before her with each step. Mona had lived in the city for years, but seeing the majesty and scale of the Manhattan skyline from a height like this was something that never grew old.
Boris continued to walk, stopping only when he reached the waist-high cement wall of the roof. He sat down upon it and gestured once again towards Mona.
“Hell of a view,” he said.
“I don’t know how you can sit there,” said Mona, a sliver of fear running through her stomach when she saw how close Boris was to the edge. “That’s gotta be 500 feet down.”
“550,” he said, turning his gaze back towards the city. “Come on, everything good comes with a little risk.”
Mona walked with careful steps towards Boris. When she, at last, reached him, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and moved her body onto the cement wall.
“Can’t appreciate the view if you keep your eyes closed,” said Boris, his low voice seemingly carried on the high, city winds.
Taking one last breath, Mona forced her eyes open. And he was right: the view was incredible. The spires of the city stretched northward, the forms of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building imposing and alight. The slivered moon hung overhead, and the gentle din of city traffic floated up to where they sat. Craning her head and looking to the right, Mona could see the blue, shimmering form of the East River, and the lights of Brooklyn beyond.