by Gaja J. Kos
A shadow passed Ileana's face, tension evident in her shoulders. “They didn't only see it. They were meant to feel it.”
Bile burned in Rose's throat as she thought of the dozens of Banniks splayed against the tiled floor, the toxin within the mark making them relive their deaths before they even happened, before the venom slowly deprived their small bodies of the last drop of liquid, tearing away their quintessence. The fact that the assault took place in their bathhouse wasn't merely a convenience; Banniks regarded their bathing as nothing less than a sacred act. The whole situation screamed of a hate crime; however, the reason behind it remained an unanswered question.
Rose finally found her voice. “Banniks, White werewolves... How many other endangered supernatural species are there?”
“Too many,” Ileana said in a dour voice. “But word has been spread throughout the community.”
Rose had difficulty believing that being vigilant would prove to be even the slightest obstacle for whoever was behind the murders. They had already attacked two groups that were nearly impossible to overcome with violence. The others would be an even easier kill... She uncurled and stood, turning her gaze to the sun-dipped fragment of Manhattan's skyline that towered over Central Park. “I wish I could stay longer.”
Ileana reached for her daughter's hand and clasped it firmly in her own. “When you get the son of a bitch, we're going to binge on those Chinese spring rolls down on 7th. And then”—she gently traced Rose's fingers without lessening her grip—“we're going to fly out and enjoy a ridiculously large box of macaroons on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur.”
A faint smile appeared on Rose's lips as the view of Paris from the top of Montmartre filled her vision. It was a memory, but also a promise. One that would keep her strength up when she would otherwise begin to fail. “It's a date.”
A couple of hours later, Rose found herself in her mother's embrace as they said goodbye. As she cruised down the streets of Manhattan, a wish she knew she had no right to make lingered in her thoughts. Ileana had fought her battles and deserved to live a leisurely life, not stand alongside Rose in the upcoming fight, as much as her daughter would treasure it; among the weres, this period was mockingly referred to as retirement, and it usually happened quite early in life.
Those who were over forty and continued to participate actively in matters of a somewhat more bloody nature were extremely rare. It wasn't a question of strength, but more of a silent agreement among werewolves that they deserved to pamper themselves; especially considering none of them had particularly carefree childhoods. The early shifts took their toll on the young ones as they learned to master them in a painfully slow and demanding process. When they reached their teens, they were already well versed in the different arts of combat. No matter how passive a werewolf was, they had to at least learn the basics. It was an ancient rule of their race, but one they all followed. And Ileana deserved her peaceful life in the city.
Rose was glad of the breeze that brought her out of her thoughts, wrapping her in the wildly mixed scent of New York; she felt grounded. But the entrancing aroma of the lively megalopolis compelled her to let her guard down for a split second. And that was all it took. She felt the sting of a needle going deep into her back, her legs giving way under her milliseconds later.
Stupid, she thought at her assailant as much as to herself. Too many security cameras. But she was already being pushed into a vehicle, barely sensing a muted exchange of words before being engulfed in darkness.
Chapter 6
Evelin stretched her legs out as she lay on a teak lawn chair, the sun caressing her exposed skin. She welcomed the warmth; it helped put her mind at ease, even if the effect was only temporary. Lazily, she observed the splashes of white move across the azure blue sky. A rustle of footsteps echoed through the breeze as Mark eased himself into the adjacent lawn chair.
“Drink?” He passed her a glass of ice-cold water, fresh drops already condensing on the smooth surface.
“Thanks.” She smiled and relaxed back onto the headrest. She noticed his lingering, questioning gaze, but she didn't find it intrusive. Mark knew every delicate angle of how not to overstep the line. “I just need a few more minutes.”
He leaned back onto the lawn chair, letting her gaze at the rocky mountain peaks in silence. The serenity of the view was augmented by a particular shimmer, the kind only the morning light carried.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
A silent shake of her head.
He went into the kitchen and later brought out a small assortment of miniature marmalade glasses, some butter, and half a baguette, neatly cut in equal-sized round pieces, on a tray. As soon as he returned to the patio, Evelin already sat by the table.
She thanked him with a smile, eagerly picking out one of the marmalades and spread it on the baguette. After eating three pieces in comfortable silence, she paused, her gaze lingering on Mark.
“You know I lost my mother when I was four.”
Lena had been killed in a rogue pack attack, fighting the rabid weres to protect Evelin. She had managed to bring down seven of them with such brutality, most of them were left unrecognizable, their identities confirmed only through scent. However, two of their pack held back during the first assault, lurking behind the house where they went unnoticed. Lena was already weary and visibly injured when they came running inside, lunging onto the battered were and causing irreparable damage. Despite the state she was in, Lena still managed to severely wound one of them, forcing the other to retreat.
Evelin was old enough to know how to howl for assistance the moment she was certain the rogue were wouldn't return. Nikolai and the pack he was running with at that time, the pack Lena had belonged to, came running within minutes, but the consequences of the fight had left Lena's body broken. The damage was too severe for her augmented healing abilities, for any kind of healing abilities to even halt, much less repair the wounds. She passed away in that kitchen, with Nikolai holding a howling Evelin in his arms.
Evelin sighed and eased her eyes on the structured surface of the mountains before turning her gaze back to Mark. “You were probably told the home invasion was simply one in a series of random attacks those sons of bitches had managed to execute. Nothing was random about those attacks, Mark. Nothing.”
She took a long sip of cold water and slid the cool surface of the glass slowly over the side of her neck.
“The Keepers decided to keep a lid on the truth. They calculated that obscuring what had transpired would serve the balance of our world better, not giving any other brainless fucks any ideas. The thing is”—she gently placed the glass on the table in front of her, her eyes still locked with Mark's—“all of the targeted houses had something, someone in common.”
Mark held his breath; Evelin had always been a private person, although she’d given him the opportunity to glimpse what lay below the surface from time to time. But what happened to her family was something she never spoke of. Never. The spree of assaults was common knowledge throughout the were community, so she never had the need to convey any information about it herself. And she preferred it that way. Mark sucked in another breath.
“I had a sister,” Evelin said in a small voice, but not one without strength. “She was just over a year younger than me. And she was...different.”
Mark slid his hand across the table, softly caressing the length of Evelin's fingers.
“They came because of her; they came for her. Like with the other families they targeted. They weren't rabid; the bastards were out for profit.”
Evelinheld back her tears. She wrapped her fingers around Mark's hand. “They were poaching White werewolves.”
“Your sister...?” Mark's voice came out as a bare whisper.
“The last one, the one my mother hadn't managed to gut... She was fighting the were that came in with him while the other took advantage of the diversion to grab Mila and run off with her.” Evelin took a long breath and exhaled slowly
. “When the pack started attacking our home, trying to find a way in, mom ordered me to stay hidden in my room; I was a cub and smelled like a Black were, so she knew they wouldn't bother with me if I stayed out of sight and remained quiet. She snuck Mila downstairs in the basement. It was soundproof, so she figured they wouldn't be able to hear her cry, possibly unable to pinpoint her smell, as well.
“The soundproofing was common in a lot of were homes. It provided a perfect place for the early transitions; besides the insulated walls, they were usually soundly built and could keep a young were inside for the duration of the most uncontrollable shifts. Mark would have done the same if he found himself in Lena's position; the basement was certainly the best, possibly the only option with a promise of safety. However, because of the popularity of soundproofing at least one room inside the house, a skilled assailant would know where to look.
“I didn't know he went downstairs; the commotion in the kitchen made it impossible for me to hear his footsteps... I was young, but I could have at least slowed him down, if not stop him completely. But I didn't know. So all I did was keep the promise I made to my mom. I stayed hidden.”
Mark traced his fingers higher up Evelin's delicately muscular arm as she remained silent, her face stern.
“She didn't make it, Mark.” Evelin looked up into Mark's tanned, rugged face. Her expression softened as she observed the uncombed ruffles of hair that fell on his forehead and the shimmer of silver in his otherwise dark beard. “They found her pelt on the black market.”
As much hurt as those words held within them, Evelin didn't cry. She carried the devastation with a strength that screamed of the only possible outcome if she were ever to come across the escaped attacker.
Mark softly tugged at Evelin's arm, which he had kept caressing throughout her recollection; with a graceful move, she angled her body around as she closed the space between them, landing daintily in his lap. He wrapped his arms around her slender body, and she buried her head in his wide chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered in the fabric of his T-shirt.
Mark traced his fingers down her jawline, lightly lifting her head. She angled her head slightly, a rush of gratification spreading through her body as he bent down and pressed his lips reverently against hers.
Evelin was in a visibly finer mood by the time the pack gathered late in the afternoon, although she held on to the (now calm) viciousness that was flowing through her veins. She likely had every intention of personally clawing her way through the bastard who branded and murdered the White werewolf; since she never had the chance to vindicate her sister's death, she could do at least that much for the unknown beheaded were.
Evelin remained at Mark's home throughout the day, keeping herself occupied with small errands around the house. The naturalness of hand labor soothed her, and Mark was immeasurably infatuated with her lithe movements as she went about her business, which seemed to always take place somewhere in his proximity.
As the pull became too much for him to handle, he led her upstairs to the spacious bedroom, to see her move without the obstruction of denim shorts and her cropped tank top; the golden light poured through the open windows, illuminating her bare skin as she lay in the middle of Mark's bed. He craved her discreetly pronounced curves, and a wave of pleasure washed over him when he finally felt them rise and fall in a steady rhythm underneath his adamant grip.
“The Gamayun was right,” Evelin said as the weres settled down, the pine trees in Mark's yard shielding them from the afternoon heat. “We'll have to head out east. Okay, northeast, but she wasn't that far off the mark.”
She conveyed what her stepfather had told her of Otmar. Nikolai had phoned his cousin immediately after he had spoken with Evelin; he did, in fact, have quite strong ties with a small White werewolf pack that resided deep within the woods of the Czech Republic. And as far as he knew, they were, despite their modest count, the largest of the very few remaining packs of White weres in Europe.
However, Otmar hadn't received word from the secluded weres in just over a couple of weeks; that wasn't unusual by itself since the Whites tended to stick to themselves, reaching out only every once in a while to keep in touch with the wider community. But considering not only the death but also the unspoken threat the severed head represented, concern spiked in Otmar.
“It's a good start,” Evelin concluded. “Despite Otmar's grave concern for the pack, he is unable to go into the woods himself. The constant uproars throughout the Czech territory keep him confined to the Moravian stronghold, and most of his weres are out in the field, so he truly can't spare any more bodies, as much as he would like. We need to track down the White pack–if they are well, and I hope to Belobog they are. They might have knowledge pertaining to any missing Whites in the wider area, pinpointing the location of the assault. If we find ourselves facing the worst-case scenario, well, we won't have to search much further...”
Mark kept his eyes on Evelin. The other four were busy compartmentalizing the newly obtained information in their heads, giving him the space for his affection and care to go unnoticed. He could see she was deeply worried about the Czech pack, but she remained unyielding when it came to her distinctly personal emotions concerning the imperiled, extraordinary species.
“When do we leave?” Jens was the first to push the facts into action. “The sooner the better?”
A unanimous cascade of nods swept around the table.
“Nathaniel will notify me if there are any breakthroughs concerning the toxin.” Tim's brother was still figuring out the defining traits of the deadly venom. The task was much more complex than he had thought at first. “There's no reason to wait.”
Although Mark disliked the lack of knowledge when it came to their opponent, Tim was undeniably right. If they opted for waiting, they might as well never even go into action.
“Someone will have to notify Rose,” he said.
“I'll send word to New York,” Zarja offered. “We'll have to be vigilant.”
The were community was well aware things were rough in the Czech Republic, but Zarja likely knew the details intimately, much more so than even Evelin's family.
“If–and like Evelin said, I hope to Belobog that I'm wrong–whoever is behind this attacked the Czech White pack, he must have chosen them with care. The situation there is much worse than what the news brings. Murdering in someone else's killing field contaminates any evidence the perpetrator might have left behind.”
Evelin looked at Zarja with solemn eyes. “It's that bad?”
“It would be next to impossible for us to track anything.” Zarja nodded, but her tone became lighter. “Besides, we have a pretty good chance of finding ourselves in the middle of a bloodbath.”
“Sounds like fun.” A chilled smile played on Jürgen's face as he tapped the tip of his chin with his fully exposed claws.
“As much as I appreciate a nice brawl, I'd much prefer it if we got to the White were's location without you flaunting your claws all over the place,” Mark declared in a fatherly tone, only shabbily masking the amusement in his voice.
“Ah, old man, you say that now. Just wait until you find yourself under attack from a pile of weres that will spring onto you like you're on the losing team in the rugby world cup finals. Don't come –”
Mark sprung with inhuman speed, tackling a completely unprepared Jürgen and brought him down on the grass surface. “Who's on the losing team now, cub?”
He ruffled Jürgen's blond strands, making the younger wolf growl in defeat as the four who remained civilly sitting at the table burst out in sincere and uncontrollable laughter. Even when Mark and Jürgen finally retook their seats and the short, but efficient afternoon entertainment had come to an end, Jens couldn't stop snickering while side-eyeing his brother.
“You.” Jürgen turned towards his twin. “I'll definitely leave you to the rabid weres in that miserable place.”
He woke in darkness, the dense smell of forest and soggi
ness making him aware that he wasn't dreaming. Wasn't dead, either. He urged himself to move, slowly waking his aching body. He was without a doubt hurt, but already healing. Not that that particular fact gave him a better grasp of just how much time had passed, but it must have been a considerable amount. He remembered fighting. However, any details were lost in the fuzzy blur of his memory.
He flexed his fingers, swiping them across his surroundings. Nothing but damp rock. Cavern, he thought as he extended his arm farther, trying to measure the width of the unfamiliar space. Air. Only air. He tried pulling himself up into a sitting position. Every muscle in his body ached, a scorching feeling of pain rushing through his tendons, but he succeeded. Unsure of how long he would be able to keep his body from falling back down, he extended his arms upward, probing above his head for any solid mass, although he already doubted he would be able to reach the ceiling. Aside from the thick air, the cavern seemed spacious. And he figured he must have been lying somewhere in the middle of it; still, that was nothing more than just another useless fact.
Giving in to the pain that sizzled in his back, he laid down, the cool feel of stone soothing his muscles. A small consolation, but he took it ardently, spreading the weight of his body fully over the damp surface. A sense of solitude swept through him as he listened to the rhythm of his own breaths. He finally closed his eyes–unable to figure out why he kept them open in the pitch darkness in the first place–and accepted that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The solitude and the low temperature of the cavern would aid his healing, but until then, he had nothing to do but lie still.
It was then that he heard the approaching fall of footsteps...
Chapter 7
“Now now, put those away before you hurt yourself.” A magnetic voice washed over Rose as she woke with her claws lethally extended, her teeth already lengthened into sharp fangs. She wasn't bound; however, two pairs of firm, unmoving hands kept her from springing forward.