by A. J. Mayall
Maxwell was the Alpha: he made the calls, he gave the orders. The others, of course, had their say. He wasn’t a dictator by any means. If the chief or other officers needed something, they respected their equals and obeyed their superiors. However, The Pack was The Pack, and this was not to be questioned.
Officer Jack Hoffman returned, put the requested bottle of seltzer on Maxwell’s desk, and swiped a bit of change off the corner. Sam sat up, glaring.
“The hell are you doing, rookie?” His eyes were daggers, his clean-shaven square jaw clenching, body tensed. The new pack Omega held his ground, crossing his arms.
“I got no problem being the errand boy, but you pay for your own damn drinks.”
Sam stood up, a few of the others moved to the edge of their seats. Maxwell wasn’t known for his sense of fun. A moment or two passed and in the silence, the group assumed the Alpha would shift into his wolven form. Officer Maxwell broke the tension, patting Jack on the shoulder.
“Ya got balls, kid. You’ll do fine.”
Maxwell rested, chugging the bottle’s contents. His muscles bulged with his every movement, the man a powerhouse through and through.
Jack sat and looked at the other members of The Pack. There were seven, including him. Maxwell, as the Alpha, got the larger center desk. None of them minded; he also had to take the most hits for the team.
Jack nodded to Dorian, the largest of the group. “So, what’s the plan for the night?”
The large black man looked down at Jack, who was just a few months out the academy.
“We hit our patrols, file our paperwork, and then you go back to the station while we take care of a few things. Sam’s got a project with the others. I have to check in at the prison. You double-check all the cases we’re on, and if we need you, we’ll call you.”
Jack turned back to his computer. He knew it would take time to be fully respected as a member of The Pack, but damn, he wanted a chance. Maxwell didn’t like him, but at least seemed to respect him, and in many ways, it made the situation better.
Hours passed. Calls were made, but for the most part, the duties of The Pack were moments of intensity followed by seeming epochs of waiting. Keeping an eye on the clock, Jack stood up and stretched.
“I’m going on patrol, taking a bike. You need me, I got my radio.”
A chorus of grunts followed as he exited the room, stopping by the Chief’s office. He knocked a few times before he was told to enter.
“Hoffman, how are you fitting in?” The older gentleman smiled at the rookie, his salt and pepper flattop glinting in the fluorescent lighting.
“I’m not, Chief. I’m beginning to question being with them. I know things are tough right now, and I don’t like asking for it but—”
“Jack, right now, you are where you need to be. I can’t understand what Stygus deal with, but I know that group has turned the greenest of rookies into the best of officers in little time. Sam’s a hard son of a bitch. Me and him have almost come to blows because of that damn attitude of his, but he’s the one who asked for you.”
Jack’s eyes darted to the closed door leading to The Pack’s office. He thought about the pressure of the job, the challenges he was willing to face. In the end, werewolves are put with werewolves.
“Right, I’m starting my patrol duties early, nothing they need me for. I might meet Dorian down at the prison later on though; he said he had to look into something. I could see if Sam needs help with the thing he’s taking the rest of the guys out to do.”
The Chief smiled and shook his head. “Don’t you worry about that, Hoffman. I’m sure they’ll have it handled.”
“All right, then. See you later, Chief.”
“As you were.”
Jack headed to the requisitions desk, signing out one of the patrol bicycles. He knew there was a stigma attached to patrolling that way, but he needed the exercise and the fresh air would do him good.
Suzette sat behind her desk, head in her palms, her fingers combing through her hair as she groaned.
“Oh God, Jeremy, can you be any more boring?” she said to the screen showing the feed from the Benton’s house.
When a thud came from upstairs, a grin spread across her face. Phoenix had returned, and she could be free.
“Everything okay?”
Suzette nodded. “Other than the fact he can’t set up his DVR.”
“You’re a real peach, you know? Benton wanted to know why I keep you around.” He chuckled, taking a seat on the other end of the desk in an office chair and kicked off the edge, spinning into the waiting area.
“Because you know better, that’s why. So, do I get to head off early, or do I have to tell Grandma on you?” She glared at Phoenix as she undid the loosened bob in her hair.
“Sure, everything looks to be in order here. Tell her I send my love.”
“I’ll tell her you’re sending payment; that’ll make her happy. If things get crazy, call me.”
Suzette gathered her jacket and shut down her desk, brushing the crumbs of the day from her dress. She smiled, patting him on the shoulder, before exiting through the front door.
She made a habit of parking her scooter in the alleyway. There were always a few roughs in the neighborhood, but they all knew her.
“Hey.” She tipped up her chin to a group of the locals, sitting on the stoop of their building. They greeted her back with a few catcalls and whistles.
“Love you too, boys. Anyone mess with my ride?”
The biggest one, a Latino man with tattoos around his neck, shook his head. “Not that we’ve seen. Things going good for you two in there?”
“Love to tell you Hector, but you know I can’t. How’s your kid doing?” She mounted her scooter, setting her purse in the saddlebag.
“She’s doing good, head of her class. Thanks again for the books. She loves ’em.”
“Thank Phoenix, they were his.”
The previous year, they believed Hector Garcia to be a gang leader hired to spy, intimidate, and eventually kill them. It had turned out the would-be assassin was Phoenix’s recent love interest. Mr. Garcia was a former Marine medical officer. He and his fellow veterans were involved in grass-roots efforts to reform some of the less desirable elements of the area, or intimidate them out of the neighborhood. Garcia had remembered her, and kept an eye out for their safety.
Hector gave her a high-five in passing once she drove out of the alleyway, speeding toward the upscale Canyon district.
Rouge Mal sprawled out before and soon underneath Suzette. The city had been first built in two areas, on the surface around the large canyon, as well as the bottom of it. Over the years and development, the city had expanded in three directions, so what some would call skyscrapers had ground-level entrances near their middles and a few only had parking atop them. It was a sprawling metropolis, the Canyon district being a cultural center, where the river ran through the city.
The Chester Building stood proudly near the riverside. Suzette spiraled down the parking areas built into the famed hotel. She nodded politely to the security man who handled staff parking. The DiMarco family had VIP parking privileges.
“Thanks, Tony. Tell Grandma I’ll be up in a second?”
The guard smiled and pointed to his radio. “Did it the moment I saw you coming in. She’s been expecting you.”
“Thanks.”
Suzette hurried in through the back corridors of the hotel. Most of the staff knew her as she had grown up in the Chester Building; it was as much her home as her parents’ place or her apartment. As she came to a corner, she checked her reflection in the elevator door across the hall. Grandma was tolerant of many things, but not being presentable at dinner was not one of them. Satisfied, she walked to a large wooden door.
F. DiMarco – Executive Hostess
It was the title her grandmother had preferred instead of “Owner”, “Operator”, “Matron”, or “The Boss”. She wanted to make sure everyone in her hotel felt li
ke a guest, but she also wanted them to know she meant business. Suzette knocked thrice and then slowly twice. It was her little signal to her grandma that it was her.
“Oh, come in already!” she heard through the door. With a roll of her eyes and a shrug of her shoulders, Suzette opened the door and entered.
Francesca DiMarco sat behind her desk, an ever-cautious, knowing smile upon her face. She wore a white suit with a black undershirt so finely pressed you could slice tomatoes on the creases. She leaned forward, her own black locks long ago having faded to gray and now platinum white with the most delicate hints of silver. A pair of faux ivory spectacles adorned her face as she pushed back from her desk and stood, walking the short distance to kiss her granddaughter on both cheeks.
“Suzette, you never called me back to know what to tell Chef to make.”
Suzette leaned in and kissed her grandmother back. “I’m sorry, we’re on a case and forgive me, but there is a chance I’ll have to go back to the office tonight.”
Francesca raised her eyebrows and the fury of the old woman flared for a second. “You tell Mr. McGee that if he thinks he can just interrupt a nice dinner between us…”
Suzette smiled, placing a finger to her grandmother’s lips.
“Infidelity, hidden cameras. Suspected to be getting it on with a werewolf.”
Francesca blushed and fanned herself. “Well, why didn’t you say so? A werewolf? Now that brings back memories…”
“Grandma!”
“Oh, be quiet. A woman can reminisce, can’t she?”
Suzette stood there, her expression one of mixed horror, incredulity, and honest-to-goodness pride in her grandmother.
“Suzette,” Francesca chuckled, “I’m suddenly in the mood for something Italian.”
“Do I even want to ask?”
“No, you don’t, because I’ll tell.” She fanned herself again. “Paolo…” she muttered as her gaze went into distant memories.
“Please stop. Please stop, or I’ll tell Dad you need him to visit more.”
Suzette gave a sharp cry as Francesca smacked her playfully on the knee. “I’ll have Chef whip up something for Phoenix as well. If you will be going off, you can at least feed him. He’s far too skinny.”
Arm in arm, they headed through the corridors of the Chester Building.
“You give him hell for being a bit late on his debt, but you insist on feeding him. Grandma, some days you terrify me.”
“Only some days? I must be losing my touch. Anyway, he knew what he was getting into with the debt. I laid it all out for him. I suppose I could give him an extension, though.”
In the back office of McGee Investigations, the electronics hummed. The blinds had been shut, the door locked, the closed sign had been posted. There was no reason to stay open when the only active case needed supervision.
Phoenix tucked into some reheated chicken lo mein from the local Chinese restaurant he was fond of frequenting, Buffet Howmani. The carton lay on its side, dripping sauce onto the floor as he bundled up on a chair, the contents now residing in a bowl, a bit too hot to the touch. He fiddled with chopsticks, bringing the noodles to his mouth.
Still nothing on the cameras.
It was the worst part of doing this sort of investigative work. An hour earlier, Jeremy texted him: his wife was coming home early to finish some work, while he had made a point to return to the office.
Margaret Benton paced around her living room, tapping away at the screen of her fliptop in tablet mode. Phoenix had been watching the strong, stocky woman for about fifteen minutes at this point. She carried herself with poise, but he noted it seemed forced, as if it were a role she was playing. Her hair was done up, too. Although the video was monochrome, he remembered from the photos in the Benton household that it was auburn with flecks of gray.
She wore yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, reclining on the sofa. Phoenix took a sip of his cherry cola and brought another mouthful of noodles to his lips. It struck him as odd to seeing her coiffed while wearing “lazy day around the house” clothes, but maybe that was her way.
She opened and set the fliptop to keyboard mode, beginning to type into it.
Phoenix noted the time and slumped in his seat.
“Oh, this is gonna take forever,” he muttered as he watched, long having abandoned worries of voyeurism in the past. Monitoring was part of the job.
“Phoenix McGee, you are requested,” he heard in the back of his mind.
Damn, the Cloister.
He gritted his teeth, and called out to the room, “I’m busy. See, work. This is what I do. Work. Boring work. Stupid work. Work that means I’m not going to go. It’s called ‘Adulting’.”
“Avoid us all you wish, GearWitch. You are requested. You are not beholden to the request.”
Phoenix was astounded at the recent passive-aggressive nature they had taken with him. Either his past defiance had finally sunk in, or they were changing strategies to see what might make him more compliant. He had to give them credit; they were persistent. Begrudgingly, the detective had found their advice and knowledge to be a boon in the past. He had only wished he hadn’t relied on them, been so obedient to them before. He chalked it up to being young and stupid.
“I’ll visit you soon enough, okay? Had to be about a month since my last excursion to the Cloister, right?”
“It has been three months for you. Gypsy Moroux says she has the information you requested. She only awaits meeting you.”
Phoenix stood up and yelled at the ceiling, glad he had no upstairs neighbor.
“You listen, and listen well! I’m not going to have you cement parts of my future just so I will pay a polite visit! Have I ever let the Cloister down?”
“Of course not, Phoenix McGee. You have succeeded where many have failed. You have been a treasured member of the lineage. This recent episode of rebellion is common. We have time to wait. Again, at your convenience.”
Phoenix looked for something to throw, but just balled a fist and punched a wall, gritting his teeth as his fist came into contact with the wood.
“What the hell do they need me for now?”
He held his right hand, massaging the knuckles, and looked for an ice pack. He peeked out the window, seeing that the sun was beginning to set. Time moving faster in perception to you was a side effect of the communications with the Cloister. He took the steps two at a time to his loft, opening the door and slamming it behind him in frustration.
On the screen in the back office, Mrs. Benton moved from her couch to the door, opening it for her lover.
Officer Jack Hoffman pedaled through the Asylum District. The counterculture center had never been the most welcoming of the RMPD, but Jack didn’t mind trying to get in with the locals. Riots a few years ago had soured the Asylum District of them; police brutality was common and the wounds were still sore to many.
He was on the other side of the mob that night. The police had arrested three Stygus on a bogus charge of public misconduct, so was the word on the street. The Asylum’s crime rate was always higher than the rest of the city, but the imposed police state the city had tried to instill then didn’t help.
Jack had been a multiple-time youth offender, the Asylum his home turf. He dealt with running: information, parcels, weapons. Due to the enhanced agility from his lycanthropy, not to mention ferocious countenance, he had been known as Spring-Heeled Jack. He had helped orchestrate a few of the acts of defiance during the riots, pushing the cops out of their neighborhoods. The gangs, the thugs, the criminals, he knew them all. When he had been arrested that last time, he suffered a concussion, three broken ribs and a dislocated knee. He decided if change had to occur in the city, he’d do it on the inside. His assignment to Maxwell was the best way.
Jack looked up at the crest of the canyon in the distance. He had an hour to sunset, he figured, the way the shadows came in. To the outsider, the Asylum was one of the most noteworthy areas of Rouge Mal. The Canyon district
had style, but the Asylum had soul. Omnus used their powers a bit more openly, and Stygus assumed less traditional forms without a second thought. He knew every tailor who specialized in multi-form clothing. He passed whom he assumed to be a hemovore, the current culturally aware term for vampire, nodding his head respectfully as the gentleman returned the gesture, his pale skin hidden under a full body veil. He stopped the bike nearby and waved him down, recognizing him as one of his old neighbors.
“Mr. Hafley, any difficulties finding donors? I heard the local community center was holding a drive. I can see if anyone off-duty can help.”
The hemovore smiled, nodding his head. “Jack, that would be most kind. Sadly, the wife and I have been having some difficulty getting meals. The hospitals haven’t been as helpful in the past, maybe because of the recent influx. This tends to be a center for our kind here…”
Jack nodded. The hospitals had long had a standing agreement with those who had dietary requirements involving blood. Family members of coma patients received a generous discount on their bills in return for the community service their loved one provided in plasma and blood donation. Lycanthropes such as Jack were highly sought after, as the blood of a werewolf could regenerate damaged tissue. He donated whenever he could. He knew of at least three people who would have lost limbs if not for the infusion of lycanthropic blood.
“Well, my shift is almost up. Give Sarah my regards.” He waved as he headed off.
“I will, Jack. It’s good to see you’ve turned your life around.”
It was twenty minutes back to the station. He signed back in from patrol and grabbed a drink from the dispenser. When he went to sign out for the day, he found Cortez, a slender man of mixed descent looking at Jack as he entered. He was clean-shaven, and had deep dimples when he smiled, such as this occasion. Another member of The Pack, Cortez ranked only a few positions under Dorian.
“Omega, we need you to come with us,” Cortez stated.
“I’m about to sign out. What’s up?” Jack grinned, thinking this might be his chance to get in good with the guys.