The Bureau (A Cage for Men and Wolves Book 1)

by Michelle Kay

  Elliot paused this time, and Clover felt her stomach sink. He'd dropped the ball, and she knew the others would pick up on it as well. They’d not had access to the records she could only assume Fisher had planted, only the papers of ownership.

  "That's none of your business." His voice, at least, didn't give anything away. "Stay away from her."

  Not waiting for a response, Elliot made for the exit, keeping an arm wrapped protectively over Clover's shoulders as he ushered her out. From behind her, before the door had closed completely, Clover caught Pierson’s subdued voice.

  "He has no idea where she's from."

  "They can't hide it forever. We'll get another chance."

  Rainer's answer muffled out at the end, but their words had Clover's stomach turning over and over as she and Elliot walked the empty hall back toward the lifts.

  They'd been on the elevator for four floors when Elliot seemed to realize he was still holding her tight against his side. He released her and took a pointed step away.

  "Sorry," he murmured.

  "It's fine."

  What was happening? Her heart raced, but it wasn't from fear. She was confused. This boy signed death warrants. He approved genital mutilation. But he'd saved her. He'd protected her from someone she knew terrified him, and now her shoulders felt too cold.

  "How'd you find us?"

  "One of the women on your crew told me when I came to get you."

  "Jeanette." Clover said more to herself than to Elliot, sure he didn't know any of the workers by name. "But how'd you know where we'd be?"

  "My brother's not as smart as he thinks." Elliot flashed her a smile that made Clover want to forget the death warrants.

  She looked back at the numbers above the door of the elevator to keep him from seeing the confusion she struggled with. Her hand closed the collar of her blouse, feeling exposed even with her uniform on.

  "Thank you."

  - 17 -

  The red light from Elliot's clock was like a spotlight in Clover's eyes as she tried to sleep. She could tell by the rhythm of his breath that Elliot was deeply under, but her body wouldn't settle down. She'd said nothing to him about her conversation with Jeanette and Isaac, as though not saying it out loud would keep it from being true. She didn't want it to be true.

  Finally giving up on sleep for the moment, she slid out of her blankets, draping one around her shoulders as she escaped the claustrophobic room. The wood of the hallway and stairs was cold on her feet as she moved down into the sitting room, embers in the fireplace still clinging to a faint glow from the fire that had burned there hours ago. Using one of the metal pokers hanging from the mantle, she stirred some life back into the coals, adding a piece of fresh wood after some heat had built.

  In the middle of the awkward small talk that night, Elliot had said that wood-burning fireplaces were hard to come by in newer houses. Most used gas. The history of his small town home seemed important to him. Clover, having grown up making fires out of broken furniture she'd found in alleys and dumpsters, wasn't that impressed.

  After pushing one of the cushioned chairs toward the hearth, she planted herself in front of the now healthy flame, perching her feet on the edge so her toes got the brunt of the heat. Her mind was numb, which came as a relief. Her fingers stroked the soft material of the chair, pausing only when they found a charred spot made by her branding iron. Out of reflex, her other hand found the still-puffy numbers on her neck. Her kind healed fast, to balance against the injuries of changing, but it was still tender, and it would be there forever.

  Not wanting to think about it, she sat on her hands, but the burn had set her mind whirring again. Maybe Jeanette and Isaac had been wrong. Maybe Elliot wasn't even that important. Maybe he was just a paper-pusher; all record keeping, no executing. Isaac had just been mistaken. Feeling like she could find evidence to defend her side, Clover leapt from her chair, only returning to the blanket she'd left once she'd collected the small black case Elliot had deposited by the front door.

  She removed the manila folders that filled the main pocket and discarded the bag, crossing her legs under the stack of folders. After a single, bracing breath, she opened the top folder. Paper-clipped to the inside was a photo of a woman in her late thirties, her nose and eyes red, but her mouth and brows drawn into tight, defiant lines. Under the photo was an identification number and a general description of her appearance. On the following pages, Clover found several blurbs, written by hand, discussing her disposition and physical state. The last page consisted of a yes-or-no checklist of characteristics, and at the bottom, separated from the rest were three options: 'Refinishing,' 'Termination,' and 'Other.' 'Refinishing' was circled.

  Clover swallowed, her mind trying to deny the rush of horror her body felt through instinct. She tossed the woman's file to the ground and opened the next one. Another woman, in her fifties. "Refinishing." A young boy, who was ten at most, was in the next file, his face sickly-pale in his photo. "Refinishing." In the fourth file was the photo of a man her father's age. She skimmed the hand written notes.

  Subject is verbally and physically aggressive.

  Refuses to cooperate with evaluation.

  Refuses meals.

  On the last page, in ink that seemed darker and more ominous than the others, a circle was drawn around 'Termination.'

  Clover pressed the file into her thighs when she realized her hands were shaking. They'd been right. With one draw of his ink pen, Elliot had murdered someone. He'd murdered the man who was looking at Clover through the small photo in her lap.

  As the word 'murderer' bounced around her head, her arms flung the papers into the fire in front of her, as though burning those printed pages would magically set their subject free. Then she collected the files on the floor and added them to the blaze. Settling back down in the chair, she gripped her knees, digging her fingernails into the tight skin there, trying to distract herself from the horrible feeling that had spread through her body. It hurt so much more than anger—betrayal.

  She felt like she was sleep-walking when her feet led her back up the stairs. In her satchel by her pallet she found the knife she'd used to subdue Elliot on that first day. It felt heavier in her hand as she unfolded it now, her bare feet making no sound as she walked to his bedside. She could stop him from killing anyone else. He wouldn't even know it had happened until he was bleeding out into his own sheets. She knew that someone else would just come to take his place, but at least she would still have the satisfaction of dispatching him herself. But what about her family? What about her siblings? Her father might be gone already, but her little brother and sister were both prime candidates for reform.

  Clover shook her head as she brought the blade of the knife silently to Elliot's throat. She could find them without this liar. Without this traitor. She would search every finishing school in the city if she had to. She would take them back by force. No more sneaking around and play-acting. Her hand was surprisingly steady as she lined the blade up. Just one quick pull and his murderous spree would be over.

  "What is it now?" Elliot's voice was calm, his eyes still closed.

  "Shut up."

  Elliot unsheathed the green of his eyes like they were weapons and looked at her, but did nothing to try escaping her knife.

  "I know everything, Montgomery." She used his surname like an insult. "I know that you sign death warrants." She waited for him to defend himself, but he just stared at her through the dark. "Well? Don't you have anything to say?"

  "Would you listen to anything I said?"

  "Do you even care that you're a murderer?" His calm made her temper bubble again and she pressed the blade to his throat, just under the hint of a line from the last time she held him at knife-point.

  "I wasn't keeping it a secret." Elliot tilted his head back to alleviate the press of the blade, but his voice was still steady. "I thought you knew."

  "Will you stop saying that?" Clover was shocked by the volume of her own
voice. She was tired of having her ignorance rubbed in her face. She didn't know anything, and she knew he was pointing it out on purpose.

  Clover felt the knife move as Elliot swallowed.

  "I'm sorry I didn't tell you." He had the look of a man trying to sooth a wild animal. "Can we talk about this? Without the knife?"

  "What could you possibly say to make what you do alright? And you chose this job." Her tone barely scratched the depth of her disgust.

  "What would you rather have me do?"

  "Not participate in this? Set them free? You send half of them to their death and the other half to owners who'll beat them on public trains.” Clover heard herself rambling, but couldn’t stop. “Why would you want to make a choice like that? Do you get off on the power of it? Do you think it's fun picking between such horrible options?"

  "Clover, I would be arrested if I just let everyone go." His voice was quiet and so patient that it was almost offensive. "I have to work within the system."

  "Why do anything if all you can pick between is death or slavery?"

  "Weren't you just complaining that no one ever did anything?"

  An uneasy feeling passed through Clover's body, like the jolt you feel missing the last rung of a ladder. She had said that, but this wasn't what she'd meant. Had she meant something more radical? What had she hoped would happen with Ji-Yung? What would have satisfied her? Hunting down Pierson and punching her in the nose would have been a start, but then what? She expected society to handle situations the way she did—violently, immediately, and haphazardly.

  The touch of Elliot's hand on her wrist brought her back to herself, and she knew by his expression that her realization had shown on her face. He looked sympathetic, even as he guided the knife away from his throat.

  "I never liked seeing your kind treated like that girl on the train, Clover. But growing up, Dom would talk about things like killing all of you." He tugged gently on her arm, guiding her to sit at the edge of his mattress. "I didn't like that either. I wasn't sure if you guys were really as dangerous as they said, and honestly, I'm still not completely sure." Clover wanted to protest, but his sincerity kept her silent. "But I do know that killing you isn't the right answer. I just wanted to keep you guys alive."

  "This isn't living." Clover's temper felt doused. The steam it let off clouded her emotions. She didn't know what she was feeling, but she'd lost the urge to hurt him.

  "I know."

  Elliot sat up and placed the knife he'd taken from her on the table beside his bed.

  "If you could set everyone free," Clover's voice was quiet, but still stiff. "Without getting arrested. Would you?"

  "I don't know."

  "What do you mean you 'don't know'?"

  Elliot must have been braver than she thought, because he held his ground.

  "I don't think you're bad people, Clover. But you can be dangerous. You're contagious. If nothing else, the sickness has to be confined."

  "That doesn't mean we're evil! We don't just go around biting people for the hell of it. We don't want it spreading any more than you do."

  The look Elliot gave her reminded her of their talk in the alley behind the boutique.

  "Isn't that exactly what you've done?"

  She was making herself a poor example for her people.

  "You shouldn't judge the others based on bad people like me."

  Elliot didn't look like he believed her, but if he had any questions, he didn't ask them.

  "I burned your files." She admitted instead of continuing their conversation. "I'm not sorry."

  "Okay," was all he said after sighing through his nose.

  Clover left the room after that, still disillusioned. She was confused again, and didn't want to spend any more time with him, certain he would only muddle her thoughts more if she did. She slept downstairs that night.

  Elliot had looked surprised when he found Clover in the kitchen the next morning, two cups of coffee ready to drink, both with cream the way he liked.

  "I figured I could use the practice." Clover had said. "I can't have another slip up if Rainer comes by again." It definitely wasn't an apology for holding him at knife point.

  In reality, the sitting room downstairs had been too quiet to sleep well in. She'd realized, several hours into her tossing and turning that she missed the sound of someone else breathing in the room with her. Even the sound of her enemy was better than the silence. Eventually, it had become more exhausting trying to stay asleep than being awake, so she'd gotten up just as the sun was peeking in through the windows.

  Neither of them mentioned the conversation they'd had the night before, and when the time for them to leave for the Bureau came and went, Clover remembered that it was Saturday. Only the agents who had street patrol worked weekends and at first, she was relieved. Going back to the building that swallowed her people whole and spat them out as garbage was the last thing she wanted. But staying home meant that her plans were at a standstill.

  Within the hour, she was pacing. Elliot had things to do—'Paperwork to catch up on,' which she knew translated to 'I have to redo those files you burned.'

  She still wasn't sorry.

  When she wandered into his office for the hundredth time, having just finished her rounds of checking and rechecking the locks on the doors Elliot slammed his pen onto the table hard enough to stop her.

  "Please, will you stop pacing like that?" He said 'please' but she knew he didn't mean it.

  "What do you expect? We should be doing something productive. Instead we're just sitting around, twiddling our thumbs."

  Elliot seemed vaguely insulted as he looked up from the piles of papers strewn about his desk.

  "I mean productive toward my goal." She clarified, ignoring the eye roll he gave her in response.

  "Well, there isn't really anything we can do until we hear back from Central Records. And honestly, you could probably use the rest. Why don't you take a bath or something?"

  "Don't patronize me, Montgomery."

  Elliot raised both hands in surrender, but didn't look particularly threatened. As he went back to work, Clover wandered over to the bookshelves, skimming the spines. A few looked like text books, but most of them had titles written out in psychological jargon that made little sense to her. Picking one of the largest, possibly so she would seem smart, she sat down in the seat across from Elliot. He glanced at her feet as she perched them on the edge of his desk, but didn't say anything. For a while, Clover amused herself by flipping through the book, pretending to be intrigued—in reality she was just looking at the pictures. Anatomical drawings of brains, mostly.

  She wondered if her brain looked different, somehow, from the ones in the book. She wondered if anyone had even thought to check. The Bureau never cared about understanding werewolves, only about controlling them. She'd always thought it was just because they hated her and people like her, but Elliot had made her wonder if it hadn't stemmed from fear first. Had they only been afraid of the disease she and her pack carried? Had it later morphed into the deep seated hatred they held now?

  "If someone was sick," her voice sounded loud breaking the silence of the office. "Would you lock them up or kill them to keep the disease from spreading?"

  Elliot looked at her for a second, then sighed, taking his reading glasses off and rubbing his eyes.

  "Do we really need to keep having these ethical quizzes?" He sounded tired, despite the extra sleep he'd gotten that morning.

  "Would you?"

  "I don't know, Clover." He straightened a stack of papers. "No, I guess. But I would make sure they were somewhere they couldn't infect other people."

  "So you'd lock them up?"

  "Well, yeah. I mean, they could get a lot of people sick."

  "What if they were really careful not to spread it to other people?"

  "Sometimes even that's too big a risk."

  Clover was quiet a moment. She wasn't as angry as she thought she should be.

 
"What about you?" Elliot countered after a moment. "Would you just let people who were contagious run around on their own?"

  'Yes' was what Clover wanted to say immediately, but if she were honest with herself, she knew it wasn't such a simple question. She wondered if she would trust a stranger with her life, which was, essentially what she would be doing by letting someone with a contagious illness roam free.

  "Maybe we're thinking about this in the wrong way."

  "Oh?" Elliot seemed interested now.

  "Maybe we're working in the wrong direction." Clover closed her book. "Maybe we could have peace if everyone was like me." The quiet horror that passed over Elliot's face surprised Clover. Was the prospect of being like her really that awful? "No one could discriminate against us if we're all the same."

  The room seemed smaller suddenly, and for a moment, Clover thought Elliot was going to shout at her, but his voice was even quieter than normal.

  "If you could choose whether you had to transform or not. What would you choose?"

  Clover couldn't answer, because she knew she'd give him the answer he wanted. She'd give almost anything to go without another transformation, but telling him that would just solidify the lower tier that her people occupied.

  "It's not as bad as it seems."

  "You're not a very good liar."

  They stared at each other again and Clover wondered how many of her lies he'd seen through. It made her nervous. Now that she knew his line of work, his ability to read people—to see straight through her bravado—made sense. She looked back down at the book in her lap, worried now that he would see through to the core of her fabrication if she looked at him any longer. Luckily, before Elliot could say anything else, his phone chirped where it sat amid his paperwork. She was glad he was one to never ignore his phone.

  "It worked." He said as he stared at the small screen, a smile splitting his face. "Central Records approved my request."

  "Really?" Clover was on her feet before he'd finished his sentence.

  "Yeah. They just sent me an email. Of course, since Dad never got around to assigning me a new computer we'll have to wait until we're inside the building on Monday to access them. But the window they gave me will leave plenty of time for that."