The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  “Are you going to make this hard on yourself and refuse to answer my questions?” I ask.

  Cinnamon crosses her arms, indicating cooperation will not be offered or forthcoming without further incentives.

  “Fine, have it your way—time for plan B.”

  “Plan B?” asks Wilson.

  “Yeah, plan B.”

  “Plan B? What, you’re going to let me sleep with her? And then make her take a pill tomorrow morning to ensure I don’t get her pregnant? And then, while we are laying together exhausted, guard down, I get her to spill all the tea?” suggests Wilson hopefully. “If that’s plan B, I want to warn you, I barely know her. Clearly, there's chemistry between us and I’m game to try it if she is, but I am not sure it’s going to work. After sex, I’m not really much of a talker, and I have a feeling she would tire me out.” Wilson gives Cinnamon a goofy grin.

  “Sounds fun,” Cinnamon pushes her boobs up with her crossed arms, giving Wilson a full view of her assets.

  “Nope, not the plan and that’s disgusting and a little rapey, you perverts. Keep it in your pants. Both of you. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Cinnamon continues to make googly eyes at Wilson, while I do my best not to gag.

  “Then what is plan B?” asks Wilson.

  “I’m calling Sinn.”

  “Girl-on-girl action, huh.” Despite Wilson’s lewd comment, a shared look of concern registers on both Wilson’s and Cinnamon’s faces; it’s a look I’m starting to get used to every time Sinn’s name gets brought up. She really isn’t very good at making friends and she is kind of scary. Although, kind of scary might be an undersell; Sinn can be downright terrifying.

  I glance over at Sergeant Graham. “Shoot her if she moves.” And then I step away to text Sinn:

  “I need you here . . . now.”

  Sinn responds: “Unless it’s an emergency, like an asteroid hitting the earth, I’m in the middle of something and won’t be free for at least an hour.”

  “No asteroid, at least none that I am aware of, text me when you’re done.”

  “Will do.”

  There is no need to raise her blood pressure, and really, everything is fine, Wilson and I are handling it. The only reason I want Sinn’s help is that I’m too much of a wuss to rough up a woman. That’s a sentence I never thought I’d think and a problem I never anticipated having. Life is funny that way, irony incarnate.

  As I look over the wrecked lobby, I wonder what we will do for an hour? We can’t just sit here with a gun pointed at the witch, Jason Stratham might come back and this room isn’t really defensible. There are too many entrances and then there’s the issue of the broken window. Then it hits me—I bet this place has a walk-in freezer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wilson, Graham, and I are all waiting in the hotel kitchen. Wilson’s eating peanut butter from a nearly expired Costco-sized jar with his fingers, all the bread is moldy and he is too lazy to find a spoon. A pile of jewelry sits on the counter, this time I think we got all of it. You wouldn’t believe how many piercings Cinnamon had that I missed on the first go-round. I’m all for individualism and expressing yourself, but at some point, a line is reached and it stops being trendy or tribalistic and becomes mutilation. I can’t help wondering what spells she stores in the jewelry attached to her unmentionables. Can she shoot lightning out of her yaya? Is that how she blew the back out of the 1950’s era heavy-duty refrigerator in Canada? I once saw a girl at a bachelor party, skillfully, without using her hands or mouth, shoot a ping pong ball across the room into a solo red cup filled with beer. That performer elevated beer pong to a whole n’other level. Talk about serious pelvic strength and control; this, shooting lightning out of your vagina would make that, seem amateurish.

  The cop is watching Wilson and me closely from the opposite side of the room. He’s keeping his distance from us. He looks nervous and his hand is awfully close to his now holstered gun. He wanted to call for backup, but Wilson and I convinced him these are not the kind of people we want to expose the regular cops to. The cops aren’t prepared to handle this type of situation and it would likely result in his coworkers getting hurt. We got him to agree to wait until Sinn arrives to do anything. For now, he’s following our lead, but whatever level of trust I had earned with Sergeant Graham by saving his life left the building when I ordered the Witch to strip. There was a moment when she was taking her clothes and jewelry off when I thought he might shoot me. He didn’t because Wilson promised him we would not hurt or violate her; we were simply stripping her of her powers, the only way we know how. Despite the doubt written all over his face, fear of the unknown won out, and he let us disarm Cinnamon and lock her in the walk-in. We did let her redress before putting her in the freezer; we’re not animals. If Sergeant Graham hadn’t witnessed Cinnamon shooting lightning at him, this would not have gone down as smoothly as it has.

  It’s a strange world indeed when Wilson is the voice of reason or moral authority for respecting women or witches. Don’t get me wrong, Wilson would never actually violate a woman or physically assault a woman—except maybe in self-defense. There are a lot of women, like Sinn, who kick ass; and a man should be, within reason, allowed to protect himself. And while Wilson understands no means no—there is no issue there—he doesn’t buy into the concept of verbally censoring himself around women. He thinks men and women are equals and anything he could say to a man without fearing offense, he should be able to say to a woman. I’ve heard him say more than once, ‘Women are much more vicious than men, particularly when it comes to verbal sparring. Women don’t need to be protected from locker room talk. If anything, Men need to be protected from salon talk.’ Wilson’s a complicated fellow. Despite his lack of political correctness, he’s an honorable man, one willing to sacrifice himself for complete strangers, men or women, if he thinks they are being taken advantage of. I’m lucky he always has my back.

  It’s been nearly an hour since I first texted Sinn; any minute now she’ll send me a photograph of her location and I’ll open a gate for her. After Sinn, I texted Adrian and let him know he had trespassers in his hotel. He told me to stand by, he’d be sending someone to clean up the scene—whatever that means. I guess he’s sending maid service? I hope they bring those little mints they put on the pillows. I love those things. They are delicious. You can’t get them at grocery stores. I’ve looked.

  “Hello,” someone calls out from the direction of the lobby. I signal to Wilson and Sarge to stay quiet by pressing my index finger to my lips. For some reason, I crouch down. I’m not sure why I do that. We’re in the kitchen separated from the lobby by walls and doors. It’s not as if anyone can see us, that is, unless they’re Superman and can see through walls. Now that I think about it, is that possible? Seeing through walls isn’t a real thing, is it? Nah, nobody can do that. Can they? Fuck, I need to read up on what is and isn’t possible—my imagination is spinning out of control. Going forward, it is probably safest to just assume any and everything is possible.

  “Why are you crouching?” Wilson whispers.

  “In case they can see through walls?”

  “That’s a real thing?” Wilson asks, while crouching down beside me.

  “I don’t fucking know,” I answer in a loud whisper. Sarge looks at the two of us crouching on the floor and then drops to one knee. He’s unholstered and is grasping his gun in a ready position, finger near the trigger, muzzle aimed down at the floor. I can’t help but shake my head, glad that Sinn isn’t watching this, I have a feeling she’d be laughing at us.

  More shouting echoes from the direction of the lobby. “Mr. Valentine, are you here?”

  Wilson sub-vocalizes, “How the fuck do they know your name?” I shrug and signal to Wilson that I will go see who it is. He violently shakes his head no, indicating his disagreement with my risky plan. I consider asking the Sergeant if I can borrow his gun, but his white knuckles are telling me there is no way he is giving up that gun, and
if things go south, it’s probably a 50/50 proposition he shoots me as opposed to whoever that is out in the lobby.

  “Who’s asking?” I shout back.

  “Mr. Valentine, where are you?”

  I stand up because I feel like an idiot squatting down and whoever it is already knows I’m here. “In the kitchen! I wouldn’t come in here with hostile intentions; we’re temperamental chefs and today we’re serving lead with a side of don’t-fuck-with-us. It’s a farm to table experience. All locally grown ingredients.” I figure it can’t hurt to let them know we’re prepared for violence if violence is imminent. “Who are you?”

  “What do you want,” whispers Wilson.

  “And what do you want?” I shout.

  Two men, one younger and black, the other, older and white, both wearing identical dark-colored suits and expensive-looking sunglasses enter the kitchen. My threat appears to have made zero impact. To make matters worse, they look like government agents. I hate the government. Looking at their matching black suits and glasses, I’m half expecting them to introduce themselves as Kay and Jay. The younger man walks towards me with his hand out; for once, I’m not detecting any imminent physical danger. I wave at Sarge, signaling for him to lower his weapon and I accept the agent’s offered hand and we shake.

  “Mr. Valentine, I’m Agent Franklin and that’s Agent Spears. We’re with the HPA.”

  “The HPA?” I ask, having never heard of such an agency; and, as a public defender, I’ve had at one time or another, an occasion to rub elbows with every possible alphabet soup agency you can think of.

  “Sounds like an STD,” mumbles Wilson. “I think I had to get a shot for that once.”

  “Human Protection Agency; we’re a division of Homeland Security,” answers Agent Franklin, all the while ignoring Wilson.

  “Of course, you are,” I respond in a sarcastic voice, likewise ignoring Wilson’s crude commentary. “HPA, huh?”

  “I didn’t name us. It’s better than the name we had before. Some rich draft-dodging douchebag from Wyoming, without a lick of military sense, despite being an avid trophy hunter, was appointed our director. He thought it would be a good idea to call us the Monster Investigation Agency.”

  “MIA?” I ask with a smile.

  “Yeah, it was all fun and games until agents started going missing on a regular basis. One of the downsides of this job is how dangerous it is. MIA is MIA, became the running joke up on the Hill. It didn’t help that our boss was constantly late to everything, and then, before you knew it, a new douchebag was in charge, this time from California and we underwent a name change. The internal memo said it was so the public can better understand what we do, which is Capitol Hill horseshit, as we’re a secret agency that hardly anyone in the public has ever heard of. Fucking politicians never say what they mean and never mean what they say.”

  Although he’s a government agent, I like this guy and I can tell by Wilson’s snickering, he likes him too. “Okay, but why are you here?” I ask in a less than accusatory, almost friendly tone. “I didn’t call the Men in Black.” I turn and look at Wilson and the Sarge. “Either of you guys call the Men in Black?”

  Agent Franklin smirks. “We do make this look good, don’t we?”

  Wilson’s eyes roll so hard he almost falls over.

  “We’re here to help. Adrian Varulv called us. Said you had a witch problem and local law enforcement might be involved.” Agent Franklin’s eyes drift over to the pile of jewelry on the counter.

  “And you’re going to help us with our witch problem?” I ask, not seeing how two slick-talking government agents in designer sunglasses will be much help with a lightning spewing Southern girl with an attitude.

  “Mr. Valentine, our directive at the HPA is to assess and, if necessary, eliminate and/or contain non-human threats. We take our job seriously and were good at it. We also protect the public where necessary, from information about non-humans that could cause panic.”

  “In other words, you’re well-dressed janitors; you sweep supernatural shit under the rug,” surmises Wilson.

  Agent Franklin looks over at Wilson. “Mr. Scarborough, we protect the public and yes, sometimes that means covering shit up, or cleaning up some idiot former soldier’s mess. The world is a dark place for humans, and we do our best to bring a little light to it.”

  “You realize that analogy makes exactly zero sense,” counters Wilson. “You cover shit up by bringing light to it? You’re just blowing agency propaganda up our rectums. I am going to need an enema after this conversation.”

  Franklin just smiles and makes no effort to correct or contradict Wilson’s crude observation.

  “So how are you going to help us with our witch problem?” I ask.

  “We are here to take Ms. Soot off your hands.”

  “Cinnamon’s last name is Soot?” I ask. A feeling of dread creeps into my thoughts. “As in Arianna Soot?”

  “Her name is Ginger Soot; Cinnamon is an alias, and yes, she is Arianna Soot’s sister.”

  “Great,” I mutter. Like I needed the coven any more pissed at me than they already are. My last meeting with Arianna and her daughter wasn’t exactly friendly. In my defense, they were threatening Sinn. Regardless, I really don’t need any more enemies. When I get back to the office, I think I will send Arianna one of those edible arrangements where the fruit is cut to look like flowers. Nothing says mended fence quite like edible fruit flowers.

  Wilson starts laughing. “You're telling me the name of the PAWG we got locked up in the freezer is Ginger and she calls herself Cinnamon. That’s like a guy named Dick calling himself Harry.”

  Everyone in the room, except for Agent Spears, who has been uncomfortably stiff and quiet, shares a look indicating our collective agreement, Wilson’s an idiot.

  “Fine, I’ll bite, what’s a PAWG?”

  Agent Spears speaks for the first time and says, “Phat-assed white girl.”

  Wilson points at Agent Spears, but addresses Agent Franklin, saying, “Your partner watches way too much porn, that’s the only way he knows that. On stakeouts, does he spend a lot of time in the bathroom?”

  Agent Spears smirks. “You’re throwing rocks at glass houses, aren’t you?”

  “Nah, don’t try and lump us together. I’m not a chronic masturbater; I just spend time on Urbandictionary.com keeping up on the cool kids’ lingo.”

  “Sure, you do.”

  “I do, plus I don’t need porn, the ladies love me. I get more ass than a toilet seat.”

  Agent Spears chokes back a laugh.

  “You’re an acquaintance of Ms. Arianna Soot?” Agent Franklin asks me, continuing to ignore Wilson and Spears’ commentary, while casting a line from the dock hoping to catch some information.

  “We‘ve met,” I answer, with intentional evasiveness. Over my years working as a public defender, I’ve developed a healthy distrust of the government and its agents. There are good honest government employees, but at the end of the day, they’re government employees and they have to do whatever the self-interested moron at the top directs them to do. They do not have autonomy. They are not trustworthy, because they can’t make moral choices, or stick to their word; they have to follow policy. If they color outside the lines, they’ll simply be replaced by someone else who will follow orders and push the agenda from the top. The word of a government agent is worth less than a forehead mounted toilet roll dispenser. #GoogleImageIt.

  “How did you know we were here again?” I ask. I only just texted Adrian and something about their story seems off. A cop trick I learned from a former investigator was to re-ask the same questions repeatedly, act as if you have a poor memory, and if someone is hiding something, they will eventually make a mistake.

  “Adrian Varulv called us,” answers Agent Spears, stepping forward, closing the distance between us.

  “How did you get here so quickly? We’re at least a couple hours from Boston and I doubt you have a field office here, in—” Th
e city name escapes me, I look around for something that identifies the city we’re in.

  “Pittsfield,” volunteers Wilson as he stands up a little straighter and takes a wider base, as suspicion and years of military training creep into his stance.

  “We were already on our way here. We got word that you visited Eirik Varulv. We figured this was your next likely destination and we wanted to meet you.”

  “Meet me?”

  Agents Franklin and Spears momentarily lock eyes; a communication passes between them, and Spears steps back.

  “Yes, meet you,” answers Agent Franklin. “We are aware of your recent change in circumstance and we want you to know you can count on the HPA to help you. We are on the same side. We’d like you to consider working with us.”

  “It’s better than working against us, kid,” adds Agent Spears.

  “I ain’t your kid.”

  Agent Franklin’s head snaps around and gives Spears a dirty look. Spears shrugs and slouches against the wall.

  “Why would I do that? Work for you?” I ask.

  “We have vast resources at our disposal, we can help you. And like I said, we’re on the same side.”

  “What side is that?”

  “Humanity’s. We are at war and whether you want to admit it or not, we are losing. The monsters are winning. We at the MPH do everything we can to protect humans from monsters. We are soldiers, protectors, the first and last line of defense.”