“Very well.” Hudson smirked. “Vincent told you about his early years, did he? How much did he tell you?”
“Enough,” Sam replied tightly.
“I see.” Hudson pulled out one of the bistro-style chairs and sat down in his little piece of shade by the door. “Well, I won’t embellish his tale with the gory details... And believe me, they were, indeed, just that... but I will tell you this much... I know that you love him, and would do anything to protect him, but if he changes...” Hudson trailed off, the silence that followed lending even more weight to the implication he was making.
“I’ll be fine,” Sam replied, and tried to maintain her stronger posture, even as she wondered what he wasn’t saying. She found out sooner than she expected.
“Vincent...isn’t like the other werewolves,” Hudson began. “He wasn’t like John, he’s nothing like you.”
“A Quicksilver wolf, I know, the book said—“
“No!” Hudson’s voice was louder, and harsher, than he’d perhaps intended. Sam recoiled from his voice like a hand had struck her, her eyes wide and worried. Hudson held up a hand, then motioned to the other chair. “Please, I’m sorry, it’s just... please, sit down.”
Sam crossed slowly, and lowered herself cautiously into the chair, all the while watching Hudson as if he might explode and require being quickly dispatched to protect herself.
“Vincent is the Quicksilver Wolf, immune to the mercury, as you are, able to control his change to a degree, as you are. But and this is extremely important... Vincent is... well...” Hudson sighed, and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Well, there really isn’t a better way to say it... Vincent is a beast.
“As much as he loves you, and as well as he knows you... if he changes, he won’t be himself anymore. You won’t be able to control him. It simply cannot be allowed to happen.”
“I don’t want it to,” Sam said quietly, keeping her eyes lowered as the words churned through her mind. Vincent... She could feel the tears welling in her eyes, and she fought hard to try and keep them from spilling over.
“I know you don’t,” Hudson said, keeping his own voice low. “But I think we both know the moon is pulling... it’s pulling both of you, that’s why he’s so irritable.” Hudson smirked, and shook his head. “Vincent is... a remarkable being, but he simply cannot be allowed to freely change. Too many people would be infected, too many people would die, before the phase would pass. And if you were near...”
“Jack, are you trying to say he’d kill me?” Sam’s tears spilled over, the fear now in her eyes pushing them free. Hudson reached for her hand, holding it tightly as he spoke.
“I don’t know. Did he tell you why he was called Wolfmorder?”
Sam shrugged. “Because he killed werewolves, I guess.”
Hudson grimaced. “Yes... and no. He killed many werewolves, that is true. But that name didn’t come from a decade of mercury-filled bullets and syringes being used. Vincent is called Wolfmorder... because he was a wolf whenever he killed. When the Pack took him from me, they took him to a compound in Germany. It was surrounded by forests... and an electrified perimeter fence. They continued the experimentation, forcing him to turn, and he attacked many people. But they also used him for training other werewolves. Most... never left the forest...”
“I so don’t want to hear this,” Sam began, but Hudson squeezed her hand harder.
“You have to.” Hudson took a deep breath. “He was what Mengele, and Himmler, and the others had hoped for, strived for, all those decades ago. He was... the ultimate weapon. Did you ever see the mark on his neck? The tattoo?”
Sam nodded, recalling the crescent-shaped heraldic emblem tattooed on the back of Vincent’s neck. “The havecon. Yes, of course.” She heaved a huge sigh, wilting into the chair. She had to ask, and yet... “Jack, when he killed them, were they transformed?”
“To my knowledge, no. I don’t believe Vincent, in wolf form, has ever faced another wolf. But do not assume your transforming would be enough to contain him or subdue him.” Hudson squeezed her hand once more, then let it go. “I’m sorry to scare you, but...”
“No. No, you were right to tell me.” Sam could feel the stress creeping up her spine, through her neck muscles, and into her head. Not having Vincent to fall back on in what could become one hell of a fight was a blow, a real blow. Not only did it compromise the front line, so to speak, but now she would have to try to keep an eye on him, monitor him, while trying to fight as well. Shit.
“I’d better see how they’re faring down there.” Hudson stood, and disappeared inside. Sam lingered for a moment, debating whether to enjoy another cigarette and relax. The debate was easily won. She pulled the door, hoping it would give her time to dry her eyes and clear her thoughts before anyone saw her, then lit up a cigarette and relaxed as best she could in the wrought iron bistro chair, her forehead cradled in one hand.
The tears came, and the shade grew as the sun continued its transit across the summer sky. Late afternoon cast its shadow on the terrace, as Sam dried her eyes, and headed in to get ready for her summit with Dushku.
32
ALBANIAN SOCIAL CLUB
Arthur Avenue, Bronx
It was a good night of the week to have a meeting at the club, and Mikael Dushku wondered if that’s why Samantha had picked it. It had been...years, frankly... since they’d spoken, and the news that she wanted to speak to him, to see him, had shocked him. He had to confess he’d primped a bit in anticipation, and now found himself lounging in a corner booth of the mostly-empty social club, nursing a bottle of vodka, and wondering what had triggered her sudden need to see him. He’d heard about her troubles with the cops, and before that, the fall which nearly killed her. His father had gone to see her in the hospital, but he couldn’t bring himself to see her broken like that.
Dushku sighed. His father had always liked Samantha, and in some ways the old man never forgave him for ruin everything. Honestly, it had been a long time before Dushku could forgive himself. He scratched thoughtfully at his well-trimmed growth of black beard, and took another generous sip from his glass, relishing the smooth taste of the imported spirit.
“Glad to see some things never change.”
Sam stood across the table from him, a smirk playing about her lips. She hadn’t changed, except... Dushku shook off the strange feeling that came over him, the sudden urge to bolt... fight or flight sort of feelings that were washing over him... Dushku shifted uncomfortably and smiled tightly.
“Sam. It’s been a while.”
“A while.”
Dushku gestured to the left. “Please sit. Would you like a drink?” Sam lowered herself slowly into the seat and stayed close to the edge. She shook her head.
“No, thank you. Think I’ll keep my wits about me, for now.” She watched as he drained the glass in front of him, then refilled it. “I thought maybe I’d run into your dad. Haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Dad’s dead.” Dushku took another large sip from his glass, swallowing hard. He took an odd pleasure in the discomfort she obviously felt at the revelation.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Sam sighed, a frown creasing her brow. “I’ve... been out of town for a while.”
“Your grandfather’s camp?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. I needed to...get out of town.”
Dushku smirked. “I’d imagine so.” He watched her eyes narrow. Ouch, he’d hit a nerve... And, while Dushku secretly rejoiced at her discomfort, he also began to feel more and more uneasy in her presence. Something was so off with her, but he couldn’t place it... She just didn’t feel like...herself...
“The last time I saw your dad, he said you two weren’t speaking.”
“We made our peace,” Dushku replied, wounded by the reminder, and needled that her retaliatory blow had hit home so soundly. “What do you want, Sam?”
“I want to talk about you and Congresswoman Strong.” Dushku felt the floor fall right out from under him,
and nearly choked on the sip of vodka he had taken right before she spoke. Sam leaned forward, and reached out to pat his back, and Dushku saw his bodyguards reaching for their weapons. He quickly waved them off, and Sam patted him on the back soundly a couple of times.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he sputtered, and gasped for air, blowing it out in a whoosh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Yup. Now...” Sam looked at him closely, her eyes narrowed, keen. Dushku had seen that look in the past, like she was looking inside him, through him, sorting out the warehouse of his mind and picking what she wanted. He felt a chill rush through him and dismissed it as the aftermath of the choking spell.
“What... makes you think I’m involved with her?’ Dushku dreaded what her response would be. There were only a few ways anyone could have known about his sponsorship, if you will, of Congresswoman Strong, and none of them would be good for him, or the politician. Or the rest of them, he thought, taking a careful sip of his vodka, and relishing the burn as the alcohol hit the raw areas of his throat.
“Don’t play with me, Mike. I know.” Sam looked at him meaningfully, and somehow deep down, Dushku knew she was telling the truth. The issue now was what she was planning to do with it.
“I contributed money to a mayoral candidate’s campaign. That isn’t illegal.”
“It is if you launder the money to do it!” Sam stopped, her eyes closed, and she took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing... I’m not here to bust you or tell you to be a good boy. I’m here to find out what she offered you to get your support... and offer you more.”
Dushku’s green eyes went wide, and he nearly choked again, this time without any vodka in his mouth. What the hell? What does she mean by...more? How much does she know about Strong, and what is going on?
“You alright?” Sam looked concerned, and Dushku nodded quickly, his curiosity peaked beyond telling.
“I’m fine. What is your proposal?”
“Oh, no, cards on the table first.” Sam leaned back in her seat. “You started to contribute to Strong’s campaign in...January, correct?”
“How do you know this?”
Sam shook her head. “I have ways... It’s better if you don’t know. Now, because of the money you got to her, through your own contributions and those of your guys here...” She gestured to the bodyguards, who still had their hands on their guns, ready to defend Dushku if needed. “Arthur Avenue avoided the gutting that happened in the Brooklyn neighborhoods, correct?” Dushku opened his mouth, his lips moving as he tried to make words. Sam held up a hand. “You don’t have to say anything, you’ve already answered it. So, what I need to know is what else did you get? Immunity from prosecution for your organization? Contracts for city construction? Control of the ports? All of the above?”
Dushku swallowed hard, nodded, and hoped his guys had done a pat-down and checked her for a wire.
“Right, all of the above.” Sam sighed, her jaw tightening. “You really never did get the hang of the whole ethics thing, did you?” She gestured to the bottle of vodka. “I’m going to need a sip of that for this next bit.”
Dushku pushed the glass and bottle toward her and watched as she poured a shot and downed it quickly, gasping a little as the alcohol made its way down her throat.
“Mike? Are you aware of some of the other... activities... associated with Congresswoman Strong’s organization?”
Dushku chuckled and nodded. “You mean the ‘werewolves’? Yeah, I’ve heard. Sounds a bit delusional to me, but so long as it doesn’t affect my business, I don’t give a shit. Although, I’ve got to say, some of those people around her, like that blonde Wonderland bitch?” Dushku tapped his forehead. “Crazy as hell. Crazy dangerous.”
Sam looked at him closely for a minute, assessing his well-muscled frame, then leaned forward... and sniffed him! Dushku frowned quickly and recoiled from her. What the hell? He watched as Sam sat back, seeming to sniff the air a couple more times, and Dushku found himself wondering if his deodorant wasn’t working or something.
Suddenly, Sam turned, her gaze settling on one of his bodyguards, and Dushku saw a smile cross her lips that made his blood run cold.
“Mike, if I were you, I would rethink employing that one.” Sam pointed to the bodyguard she’d focused on, and the hard, tough man’s eyes suddenly filled with fear. “I think the last thing you need is to be spied on by one of Strong’s puppy dogs, correct?”
Dushku looked at the man – Embry was his name, if he recalled... The man looked ready to bolt, but the other bodyguards had their hands on their guns, and Dushku had a feeling if Embry tried to run for it, they were going to take him down.
“Get him out of here.” Dushku motioned to Embry, and two of the bodyguards dragged him out. Dushku turned to Sam. “Puppy dog, huh? He was a semi-pro wrestler!”
Sam shrugged. “And now... he’s not.” She sighed. “Sorry, I couldn’t talk anymore in front of him.”
“They can’t hear what we’re saying, we’re too far away.” Dushku frowned, studying Sam’s face. “What were you doing before? Sniffing the air for werewolves?” He chuckled at that... it really sounded ridiculous. He’d humored Strong and her minions when they talked about them as if they were real, but Dushku had concluded that so long as their delusion kept the ports working for him and the cops off his back, he didn’t care if they thought they were dragons, or fairies, or gnomes.
“Yup.” Dushku caught the one-syllable reply, and his stomach tied in a knot. He stopped chuckling and looked at Sam... the dark blue of her eyes, the glow of her pale skin, the strength in her shoulders and bare arms. She was different... stronger...wilder...
“Sam... it’s true, isn’t it? They aren’t delusional, it’s all true.” He started to breath heavily, then frowned. “No, this is impossible! There can’t really be anything like that.”
Sam lowered her head. “Oh, Mikey... I assure you...there can.” Sam looked back up at him, and her eyes... were black... completely black, and flat, and empty like a shark. Dushku started to hyperventilate, and the bodyguards went for their guns. Sam closed her eyes, and opened them, the black fading quickly away, replaced once again by the blue of her own eyes.
“Call them off, Mikey, before they get nervous.” Sam’s voice was low, but the warning was palpable, and Dushku wondered just what would happen if the guys drew on her... and if he himself would live to find out. He quickly motioned to them, pushing them back toward the doors. They backed off reluctantly, and hands came off guns.
Dushku turned to Sam, his gaze wary. “How is this possible?”
“Short version?” Sam smirked. “Genetically predisposed to carry a hybridized viral disease that mutates the DNA and allows the carrier to become a mythical creature once a month.” She sighed. “Does that work for you?”
“Well, damn.” Dushku ran a hand through his dark hair, resulting in a spiky mess. He stammered as he asked, “Were you... when we...”
Sam chuckled. “No. This happened almost a year ago.”
“So... you’re a...”
“Yup.” Sam shrugged, and smiled. “I am a werewolf... coo, coo, ca-choo.” Her smile faded. “When you referred to the ‘blonde Wonderland bitch’... you meant Alice, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I think that was her name.” Dushku whistled for emphasis. “That woman was crazy as shit, no lie! I heard plenty, but when I saw her in action... She scared the hell out of me, and I don’t scare easy.”
“No, you don’t... which is why I’m here, talking to you about this. We are about to stage a coup. We need your help to pull it off. There could be some risk to your business in the very short term, but ultimately... the profit for you will be worth it.”
Dushku’s business instincts kicked in, and he narrowed his gaze as he leaned toward her. “I’m listening.”
33
DAILY NEWS BUILDING
East 42nd Street
Vincent waited outside the building, enjoying yet another cigarette, and tried t
o calm his agitated mind. He hated the idea of Sam being anywhere on her own under the circumstances, although truth be told she was probably a lot safer with a bunch of Albanian mobsters than she was with him. Her response to his revelations had truly touched him, and he found himself quite desperate for her now... For her acceptance, for her love... and yet Vincent knew if she really understood what he was... He groaned and tossed away the butt of his cigarette. He started to pace again, making an unobtrusive round of the courtyard every few minutes, trying not to draw too much negative attention. The last thing he needed now was to be accosted by coppers... Vincent looked up at the building, a frown creasing his brow as he sighed with exasperation... Good God, Francis, what is taking so long!?
FRANK RONNE KEPT A mild, pleasant smile plastered on his face as he waited in the hallway outside the television station. Time was, coming to this building meant newspapers, but the News had moved several years back, and a good deal of the landmark Daily News building was now rented out to other businesses. There was a local network affiliate, though, and that was where he had come with one of the fresh flash drives Ben had pieced together. Coupled with the manila envelope full of printouts of some other materials, the evidence was damning for the congresswoman... The kind of story any reporter worth his or her salt would clamor for. And that was the idea...
When Sam had told Ronne the plan, and his part in it, he’d chuckled. It was old school warfare, using the press to fire the first volley, but when it came to politics, often the best way to draw them out was to publicly force their hand. And the best way? Negative press coverage that had nothing whatsoever to do with the real issue of wrongdoing. The financial and ethical questions were sublimely important, and voters would be justifiably upset their votes were manipulated, money changed hands to curry favor and propel her this far, and it was the perfect means of drawing attention that had nothing to do with werewolves... and yet, it had everything to do with them.
The Bloodline Series Box Set Page 62