Feral

by Serafini, Matt

  Something had landed on the roof.

  His would-be killers were startled, speaking amongst themselves in terrified native tongues. Then they fanned out; their attentions somewhere else. Their guns were drawn on a gigantic, moving mass that sat perched atop the sedan's caved-in roof. It rested on hind legs, glaring at its targets and offering a persistent growl. Beneath it, from the driver's seat, a bloodied arm dangled out of the crushed and collapsed window, thick black gore trickling down the swaying limb, pelting the earth with tiny drops.

  Shotgun was farthest from the car, his legs spread apart like opened scissors. His weapon gripped tight in both hands. To either of Allen's sides, the lovers took trembling aim at the wolf.

  As if sensing the ballet of oncoming gunfire, the monster launched, leaping over the bullet rain. It landed on the vehicle's far side, hitting the ground on all fours, only the top of its ruffled shape visible over the sunken roof. It banked around the car's rear, trotting toward Allen.

  The gunmen shouted and struggled to keep aim on the fast-approaching beast. It was too quick, lingering in a patch of moonlight long enough to reveal a mane of midnight fur. The thick-accented killer screamed out as he fired off two shots that went too wide to hit the charging wolf. Amidst the confusion, the animal snarled and took a swipe at the bad shot. His leg broke off below the knee, the broken appendage flying into the woods like a golf ball.

  Loiza only had time to cry out, the very beginnings of a protest. The wolf's sights were set. It bounded over Allen and landed on its hind legs, towering over the gunman by a good foot or three. Loiza didn't go out fighting. He dropped his pistol and propped his forearms up over his face to protect himself from impending carnage. The wolf batted them away with an annoyed snarl, carving bloody rivets in both his arms with a single swipe. Now the killer's terrified face was wide open for something worse.

  And it came.

  Massive jaws stretched, spraying ropes of saliva into his face before they closed on Loiza's face. Talons dug into his chest with wet thunks that seemed to echo forever while they overlooked Scenic Area I.

  Shotgun's frantic gunfire caught the wolf by surprise.

  Loiza's face tore from his bones. Broken flaps of stubborn skin snapped back against his faceless skeleton.

  The wolf came back for another bite, this time chomping into his neck meat. Loiza's head spun into the air with a blood geyser blasting from his shoulder cavity, rocketing into the night and spraying the car with a stream of gore. The head plopped and bounced off the hood and into the dirt at Shotgun's feet.

  The body dropped, leaving Allen nestled in between two mutilated corpses. To his right, the legless killer whimpered. Allen reached out and grabbed his discarded weapon, despite never having fired a gun in his life as the wolf fell onto all fours. It disappeared, this time hurrying around the front of the car.

  Shotgun called out in a garbled plea for mercy, but he received none. A sickening yelp and a wet gargle signaled his end. Allen laid still, his beat-down injuries screaming out—too much pain to get up. His wolf protector devoured the would-be assassin as he wrapped an arm around his side and groaned.

  When the wolf finished, it sauntered back around on all fours and nudged its gigantic body against his side. Then it dropped into the dirt and placed its nose against his so that he could see into its blue-yellow eyes. Only now did he realize how familiar they were. Now gentle eyes watched him struggle to his feet, despite throngs of pain trying to keep him down.

  The pain would pass. He knew this because the day's uncertainty dissipated before him. As strange as the madness was, there remained one constant throughout the last few nights: he loved the woman who stood before him, even now. The anger he'd harbored was washed away by stronger sensations of relief.

  With her snout, Elisabeth motioned to the one-legged killer who sniveled beside them. Her eyes did not leave his, and the inaudible growl, the tiniest noise ringing in his ears, was easy enough to understand.

  He understood her because, what she wanted, he wanted, too.

  The air around him was fetid, but hunger outweighed the churning stench. An unquenched thirst, the same that had propelled him to take Sondra Gleason, drew the animal out.

  Like the worst drunken one-night stand, he would regret this once it was over. There'd be nothing but shame tomorrow. Tonight, the blood smelled like a succulent marinade, and no more convincing was necessary.

  Allen fell to his knees beside the mutilated man.

  "Please..."

  Elisabeth's cavernous blues swirled with perverse delight. The moment was about pleasing her as much as it was about feeding. Her yawning gaze said, "Do it."

  He didn't need an invitation. This day would end as it had begun. He picked up the limp gypsy wrist, sinking his teeth straight into it—his canines only now taking point. His lips flushed with delicious crimson sprays; every drop excited his tongue, an appetizer that provoked his appetite.

  The wolf came running out of him. Once the forearm was a mess of broken bone and sinew, he moved onto the chest, batting the open vest away with a furry palm. He dug in, gnashing against the row meat and pulsing organs. He'd always liked bloody steaks, but this was even better. As fresh as fresh could be.

  He changed as he ate, glancing at his lover in between bites. He was like her now, tearing the human body apart out of necessity for preservation.

  The animal took over, save for a lingering spot at the bottom rung of consciousness. It knew enough to recognize his woman—the radiant bitch across the way. He observed her nodding snout and proud orbs that continued to encourage his every bite.

  "I have you now," they seemed to say.

  But Allen didn't care.

  He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Six

  Lucy had started feeling out of her element about twelve hours ago.

  She'd been lucky enough to secure a parking spot across the street from the Manhattan Mandarin Oriental. The only downside to this vantage point was that you had to crane your neck all the way around in order to keep an eye on the hotel's awning. Its patrons came and went at all hours of the day and night.

  The coffee shop three steps from her car offered a steady stream of caffeine, and a few flirtatious exchanges with the middle-aged owner bought her anytime bathroom access, too. Wouldn't have gotten this far without a constant triple espresso cappuccino in her hand, but a busted bladder would've stopped this Nancy Drew stakeout long ago.

  The last thirty-six hours hadn't provided the desired result, but Rory—he wasn't Dad anymore—was up to something. She hadn't found that out for certain until the following morning when a limousine picked him up out front.

  Trailing a limousine through a sea of impatient Manhattan traffic had been a challenge. Not because it was hard to follow the car, but because New York drivers were attuned to aggression. Slow down at a yellow light and it's not only your ass, it's a front bumper being jammed up there too—hope you've got collision insurance! If the limo had recognized her as a tail, it made no indication of such, crawling in and around the impatient slew of honking vehicles until traffic thinned and they hit the Port Authority warehouse district. The limo slipped through an opening that led to a dilapidated waterfront three story, and then two security guards tugged closed the giant gate, leaving her to her imagination.

  She had jotted the warehouse address down on her phone's notepad and waited for Rory to resurface. Three hours crawled by before he did. She followed him back into Manhattan and, by then, the streets were abuzz with lunch hour traffic. The limo dropped him off in front of what looked like a ritzy, five-course lunch restaurant with small portions and massive prices.

  Two middle-aged men dressed to the hilt in nicely tailored suits had accompanied him inside; their collected demeanor was forced casual and felt a bit too "upper class" for the type of company he usually kept. They put her on edge without knowing exactly why.

  Whatever Rory Eastman was up to, it concerned more than just G
reifsfield real estate. If he was trying to break into the NYC game by way of some ramshackle waterfront property, it remained to be seen.

  What else could it be?

  One ninety-minute lunch (and several drinks, based on his sloppy gait) later, Rory was driven back to the hotel, where he had stayed until late evening. As soon as he disappeared through the revolving door, she'd jogged down the sidewalk to a hotdog stand and grabbed an Italian sausage and Dr. Pepper.

  The entire day passed before the trio had reappeared, and this time they hailed a cab that swung up onto the curb as if it had been waiting for them. Rory's two acquaintances weren't the same men that he'd eaten lunch with. One was incredibly young, and pretty cute, not much older than her, with long, blond shoulder-length hair that blew in the humid evening wind. His dress was classy casual: a pink button down shirt, fastened halfway to reveal a well kempt, hairy chest. He had moved with the confidence of a celebrity, fully aware that any woman in her right mind would at least do a double take.

  Beside him had been an older man, slightly overweight and dressed in baggy, unflattering clothes. His appearance contrasted his better half: greasy, sleazy and off-putting. His movement was dissimilar to the rock star's, but with the same confidence, however unwarranted.

  Hard to imagine a life in which these three had any commonalities.

  They'd climbed into the taxi and Lucy was on its tail, weaving in and out of New York traffic with experience. Hadn't been so lucky, though, losing them somewhere over the Tappan Zee Bridge on the way to Jersey.

  She'd crossed over too before turning around in defeat. Impossible to say what business Rory had in Jersey, but he'd return to the Mandarin Oriental at some point.

  But not for a while.

  She’d considered telling Mom everything, but it was still just her own experience that put sinister implications on what could very well have been a legitimate business trip.

  If Mom's non-reaction to the whole, "he's cheating on you," bomb was any indication, then she wouldn't be any more willing to listen to her daughter now.

  This summer had gotten off to such a promising start: a few good friends (and Allen) in town for a string of lazy days and sloppy nights. Summer lovin' was going to be a blast with Jack, even if the dummy was too stubborn to read her glaring signals. It was time to lay it on the line, to see how he felt about becoming more than friends.

  Then Rory decided it wasn't enough to sleep with every reasonably interested girl in Greifsfield. That making a pass at his daughter was the only thing to quench his repugnant thirst. The possibility of a carefree summer had vanished before her eyes, leaving her miserable and distant in its wake. Sure, Jack would help but she wasn't about to bring him into this. If they were to get caught spying, Rory wouldn’t hesitate to make an example out of him.

  You’re alone in this.

  And now was the time. Lucy glanced at the digital camera in the passenger seat. Sooner or later, it would be put to good use, and then Rachel would have all the necessary proof.

  She wondered how Mom would react when presented with evidence. Vindication wasn't typically important, but when her mind stretched back to that groping, she wanted to hurt them both. Him for being a son of a bitch, and her for turning a blind eye and leaving her children in harm's way.

  Her stomach was queasy with the thought of everything.

  The stress of navigating New York City's hustling traffic kept her focused on getting back to the hotel. The GPS signal on her phone kept her moving in the general direction and soon she was sliding into an available parking space on the street parallel to the Mandarin Oriental.

  Lucy pulled a grey Puma sweatshirt out from the back seat and slipped it over her fiery red hair. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and pushed into the lobby through the revolving gateway.

  A young black woman was one of four people working the front desk, and the only one available.

  "Can I help you, ma'am?"

  "You sure can. My name is Lucy Eastman." She plunked her driver's license down on the counter. "My father, Rory, is staying here for a few nights, and my mother asked me to stop by and give him this." She pulled a rolled-up paper out from beneath her hoodie.

  "Am I supposed to know what that is?" She looked, not at Lucy, but at the line forming behind her.

  "Medical test results. Sensitive stuff."

  "Leave it here and I'll see that he gets it."

  "Like I said...sensitive stuff."

  "Ma'am, there's a line..."

  "And I'm at the front of it. And my father is staying here. Now I'm supposed to give him this..."

  "Then have a seat over there and wait."

  Lucy looked at the girl's nameplate. RHONDA. She wasn't giving up the goods for nothing. The hotel ought to give her a raise.

  "I could do that," Lucy said, "but that wouldn't be discrete. You see, my father is with business compatriots. The kind of folks who might get suspicious if they see his daughter hand off a roll of documents. Now, go on and look my father up. Rory. Eastman. He's practically here more than he's at home. Might be you even have my name on file. So, please, let me bring this to my father's room without incident."

  Lucy pushed her license to the counter's edge, remembering the time she'd visiting the city with Rory. She'd asked him for her own room so that she could stay up late and watch Rome without worrying about Mom censoring her view of the gorgeous naked men. To her surprise, Rory went for it. Probably so he could fuck an escort without discretion.

  The clerk keyed in some information, then dropped a keycard down, pushing it and the license back.

  "Enjoy your stay, Ms. Eastman," Rhonda said and then summoned the next in line.

  "Thank you."

  She made her way up to the 11th floor and found room 1108 in the furthest corner. Uncertain as to what she was looking for, she swiped the card and slipped inside.

  The room didn't appear as though it'd been inhabited at all. Its smell was fresh, linen unlined. There wasn't so much as a crumpled piece of paper in the wastebasket. Fear and frustration gripped her stomach; had all of this been a waste of time?

  She drilled down, unwilling to accept a quick defeat, taking another pass through the suite checking closets, drawers, and glancing beneath the bed. Not only was her father a son of a bitch, he was careful. One didn't get this far without bona fide paranoia.

  A laptop satchel was tucked underneath the coffee table in the living room. The black leather blended against the wood legs of the table, making it easy to miss on the initial sweep.

  She went right for it, flipping it open and leafing through its contents. Beside the laptop, she took a handful of gritty photographs. Flipping through them brought familiarity as she recognized the location, shot through what must've been closed-circuit security camera photos.

  The Big East.

  The angles were all the same, looking down from ceiling level. Still photos taken of the living area in a number of rooms. It was easy to discern which had been snapped inside the hotel, and those that were taken in the cabana rooms. People had been captured in varying degrees of undress while lounging on the couch or twisted into compromising positions. Several of them were circled in red sharpie, their room numbers scribbled into the corners of each photo, along with a date that likely signified their checkout time.

  Her stomach danced, knowing that this bastard had hidden cameras in every room.

  Or was this something new?

  Her first instinct was to fold some of them into her sweatshirt and escape. Hightail it back home and let the police make sense of things. But Rory wouldn't be here five minutes before realizing some were missing. Then he'd check with the front desk and find out that his daughter had stopped in for a visit and that would be the end of it.

  Instead, she put the digital Nikon to good use. A few quick snaps of the grainy photos captured them with enough legibility. Then she rearranged everything just as she'd found it. The satchel slid back into place, tucked against the legs b
eneath the dark marble table.

  A quick sweep of the place followed, and she took cautious steps to make sure she hadn't messed with anything else.

  Lucy's heart flittered and adrenaline poured into her. She was about to get away with this—one step closer to getting Rory out of her life forever. Didn't matter if his prison sentence and legal bills would claim the family money, the Eastmans would survive. Rachel wouldn't feel the same way, but Lucy couldn't bring herself to care that much about what she thought anyway.

  You're getting ahead of yourself.

  The hotel room was free and clear. She started for the door when a short knock froze her solid.

  "Ms. Eastman, please open the door. This is hotel security."

  Lucy said nothing; her eyes swept the room, searching for a way out. This was the 11th floor and escape was unlikely, more unlikely than finding a dependable hiding spot. Duck into any closet, slink beneath any bed, it didn't matter—it was only prolonging the inevitable.

  "Ms. Eastman, please open. I will be forced to open up if you do not."

  Fuck...

  Her trembling hand depressed the handle and the guard pushed in. He towered over her like Goliath. His uniform, a pair of black slacks and a burgundy jacket would've looked silly on anyone else, but his no-nonsense demeanor offset the monkey suit.

  "You are here without your father's consent, we checked. His request is to keep you here until he arrives."

  Lucy thrust her hands into her pockets to hide the jitters, and held her eyes on the Latino security officer. She took a quick round of breaths, inhaling slowly and then breathing out her nose in powerful bursts. It helped slow her rapid heartbeat, if only a tiny bit.

  "You can't keep me here because I wanted to see my father," she said, furious that her voice sounded so uncertain. "That is illegal and I will not be a prisoner."

  Lucy tried to circumvent the guard but he sidestepped into her path.

  "You're not a prisoner, Ms. Eastman. Not as of yet. But you are trespassing. To the Mandarin Oriental, that is a crime...one that the NYPD would agree with. So, if you don't want to take a trip to the local precinct, take a seat and wait for your father, who is coming directly."