The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  Wilson for once has nothing to add. He looks lost in his own thoughts. Probably thinking back to his service days. He’s a patriot at heart; red, white, and blue love for America pumps through his veins. He’s never been a fan of the government, but he’ll always be the first one to volunteer to fight for what’s right—that’s just who he is, it’s in his DNA. I can tell Agent Franklin’s fight for humanity speech is appealing to him. The things we have seen in the past view months are terrifying and now Agent Franklin seems to be holding a lifeline, resources, and a structured way to fight back, then again, it could just all be bullshit.

  “Why do you want me? I’m just a lawyer. I’m not a soldier. If you’re going to pitch me, let’s put the rat on the table.”

  Agent Spears lets out a loud snort.

  Agent Franklin steps towards me, we are now practically eye to eye, a little close for my comfort. “Mr. Valentine, we both know you’re more than just a lawyer. You’re an Advocate. A Concordat citizen. You have a vote on the council. You can provide us with information and access we’ve never had before. Access humans have never had before. You can make a difference in this war. You can save lives.”

  “So, you want me to be a spy?”

  “No, Mr. Valentine, we want you to fight for your country and for your people.”

  “My people? Did they send you because you’re black and they thought we might relate, brother to brother? Are you even in charge or is the illusion of a black man with authority for my benefit? Let me guess, the old white guy leaning against the wall is your boss?” I gesture toward agent Spears.

  Agent Spears tips an imaginary hat in my direction.

  “Mr. Valentine,” answers Agent Franklin, “he’s not my boss, although to be fair, my boss isn’t black either, . . . he’s Hispanic. And yes, I’m sure I was picked for this mission because you and I are similar in age and I’m black, but I was also picked because I’m the best man for the job. I didn’t think you’d respond to my blackness, but I hoped you’d respond to my message. Look, I know that although you’re mixed race, you have never really shown any prejudice or race preference, at least publicly. You’ve never been a member of any racially charged or anti-government organization. You were never even part of an African American fraternity or club. Other than the occasional girlfriend you’re a bit of a loner. Your file is quite boring.”

  “I have a file?”

  “Don’t play dumb, it’s beneath you. We are the government; everyone has a file, Mr. Valentine.”

  “What does mine say?” I ask curiously.

  “Dad’s black, Mom’s white, both deceased. You’re divorced from a white woman . . . a former model. Pretty cliché if you ask me. The men in your family clearly prefer white meat. I understand your ex is now engaged to the San Francisco District Attorney and he’s thinking about running for governor. Looks like she’s marrying up,” recites Agent Spears, like he’s reading a menu at the waffle house.

  I silently sneer at the agent.

  Agent Franklin shoots his partner another disapproving look and then interrupts, “Unlike your ex-wife, you don’t seem to have any political aspirations or affiliations. You weren’t even a member of the typical liberal groups that all public defenders seem to join. You’ve dated women of all races, had friends of all colors, listen to a wide variety of music, country even. “

  “Country?” asks Wilson.

  I shrug. “I can’t help if I occasionally like an FGL song.”

  “Florida-Georgia Line? Really?” Wilson shakes his head disappointedly. “That’s more pop than country. And it sucks.”

  “You seem to get along with everybody,” continues Agent Franklin. “If anything, your weakness is that you overextend yourself trying to help everyone—which is impossible to do. You’re practically a boy scout in a man’s body, and despite the fact your black father appears to have been a huge asshole, the people in charge seemed to think you might respond better to a brother like me—than my pigment-challenged partner. But none of that changes the fact that you could help people by working for us. You could do a lot of good for your people, for all people, people like Trudy. We can help you. You don’t have to do it all by yourself. All you have to do is ask and an entire agency will have your back. We can protect the people around you, the people you care about.”

  Hearing Trudy’s name, the secretary and house mother at the public defender’s office where I used to work, who was murdered by a giant half-man, half-spider because of me, feels like a slap across the face. Whatever emotion was displayed on my face is now replaced with a cold vacantness. I fight an urge to open a gate to my favorite Oakland bar, Billy Bob’s, and escape to try and drown the guilt. Fuck this Will Smith wannabe.

  Our talk is interrupted by a noise in the lobby. It’s faint, but I definitely heard something and by the way Agent Spears tensed up and reached for his piece, I can tell he heard something too.

  “You all expecting backup?” whispers Wilson.

  Agent Franklin shakes his head and signals for me, Wilson, and the Sarge to take cover behind the stainless-steel kitchen island. I nod to Wilson, letting him know that for now we are going to follow the agent’s lead. I’m no hero; if the agents want to handle this on their own, I will not get in their way. Agents Spears and Franklin take up positions about ten feet back from the door on either side. They’re positioned so they both can cover the opening, but no one entering can target both of them at the same time.

  Something about the agents’ guns strikes me as odd. It takes me a moment before I realize what it is: they’re covered in faint runes. Interesting, I wonder what the runes do? It hadn’t even occurred to me to talk with Sinn about improving our weapons with magic. I wonder what that costs? If we will be fighting monsters regularly, I think I owe it to Wilson to give him every possible advantage. When this is all over, I will have to do some research into cutting-edge, monster-fighting equipment.

  Agent Franklin presses something on his cell phone and places it on the stainless-steel prep island in the center of the kitchen. I momentarily feel a tingling sensation. I wonder if the agent activated an app like the silent sphere app that Pavo once showed me.

  Growling erupts from just outside the kitchen. A shadow crosses the doorway, but doesn’t enter, and then there is a blood-curdling howl that causes my knees to shake, followed by at least two responsive wails, one from somewhere near the entrance and the other from the other side of the wall behind us. Hearing a pack of bloodthirsty wolves’ howl in the middle of the day, and knowing you’re on the menu, is unsettling to say the least.

  The Sarge is shaking badly. Wilson reaches over and places his hand on the Sarge’s shoulder, looks him in the eye and calms him down. They communicate in a way only soldiers who’ve seen things on the battlefield that they’d rather forget can.

  Suddenly, a whirlwind of fur and claws charges towards the kitchen doorway. Agents Franklin and Spears have good reaction times and get shots off before the werewolf even breaches the door’s threshold. The shots pack a wallop and spin the half-man half-wolf, first to the left and then to the right, as alternating bullets from each agent’s gun batter it from side to side. The wolf collapses face first onto the ceramic tile floor. Blood flows from its torso wounds. Its chest heaves up and down as it struggles to breathe; it’s still alive. Despite the extreme violence I just witnessed, my focus is on Agent Spear’s gun and not the bleeding werewolf. I wonder what the hell that gun is firing. Whatever it is, I want one.

  A wooden chair flies through the doorway like a missile, causing Agent Spears to flinch and Agent Franklin to dive out of the way. The chair shatters into thousands of splinters, as it strikes the ground where Franklin was standing just moments before, causing everyone to shield their eyes. I was only distracted for a split second; it was enough. When I look back at the doorway, the bleeding wolf is gone. All that remains is a pool of dark-colored blood and bits of bloody fur. These creatures are fast and working together.

  Ho
wling erupts from all around us. There are a lot more than three wolves in the building.

  Wilson and I share a look of terror; I’m willing to bet he’s thinking the same thing I am. These aren’t wolves, these are men in wolf bodies. Men who can think, strategize, and who are smart enough to create a distraction to save a pack mate. It’s easy to look at a werewolf and think that although you know it’s got massive claws and teeth that can snap your arm right off, it’s just a stupid animal, controlled by its instincts, and you can outthink it. Thinking like that will get you killed—these aren’t stupid animals. These are intelligent, plotting, strategizing monsters. The kind that make grown men want to pull a blanket over their head, shut their eyes tight, pull their knees to their chest, and pray their mommy comes and turns the light on.

  Agent Franklin hands me a small gun he retrieves from an ankle holster. It’s cute. It looks like something a grandmother might carry around in her purse. I consider asking him if it comes with matching lip gloss. Before I can ask if I am supposed to use it to protect us from angry squirrels, Agent Franklin says, “Be careful with that. It packs a lot more punch than you’d expect. You only get seven shots. Don’t waste them.”

  I take the dainty gun and hand it carefully to Wilson. Agent Franklin gives me a questioning look. I shrug. “He’s a better shot.” Franklin nods respectfully.

  Wilson chambers a round and grins at Agent Franklin. “A Kel-Tec P-32. Nice little gun. I bought one for a girlfriend once. She was having rat problems in her trailer. Didn’t realize it came in any color other than pink. The one I bought came with a matching garter-belt. You wearing one under those slacks?”

  Agent Spears half laughs, half snorts. I have a feeling he’s made a similar comment to Agent Franklin in the past regarding his gun selection.

  “It’s modified. It shoots mage-cast bullets, made with a silver alloy. That little gun has enough stopping power to take down a charging rhinoceros,” answers Agent Franklin.

  “Yeah, I bet it looks good with matching heels, too.”

  “I can take it back if you don’t want it.” Agent Franklin reaches his hand out with his palm up.

  “Nah, you got me curio—" Wilson’s interrupted by more howling. “I’ll keep it.” Wilson drops to a knee and takes up a ready firing position. Four guns are now trained on the door, I’m the only unarmed prey. I decide I better remedy that. I grab two butcher knives from a knife block and ready myself for violence. Spears gives me a questioning look. I wink, not because I am comfortable fighting with a pair of knives, although Sinn has been making me train with all manner of blades; mainly I wink just to fuck with him. Up to this point, very few people know I’m more than human. It’s a secret that I doubt has made it into my file, and one I would prefer to keep, particularly from the government agency tasked with hunting things that are more than human. Unfortunately, there isn’t much value in the secret if I am dead.

  “What’s the deal with the app?” I ask, gesturing towards the phone on the table.

  “It’s an MR.”

  “A what?”

  “A Mage-Recorder,” Franklin answers, without taking his eyes off the doorway. “It’s creating a record. A government mage will be able to use it to replay what happened here. Think of it as a 360-degree camera with audio. It’s the modern magical equivalent of a body camera. As long as it’s active, it’s recording. It’s standard HPA procedure to activate an MR anytime there’s an engagement with non-humans.”

  “Big Brother is watching,” mutters Wilson. It sounds sarcastic, but it is thrown at me, a warning, and I catch its meaning.

  Nearly a minute passes and nothing happens. No targets emerge and I can tell everyone’s starting to tighten up. There is nothing more stressful than waiting for a fight you know is coming. Just as I’m about to suggest a gateway retreat, the lights go out, and I have a feeling all hell is about to break loose.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The darkness recedes as the emergency battery-powered exit sign above the door kicks on, spilling light into the room. The kitchen has no windows and seemingly only one entrance—the one all of the guns are pointed at. There is a fire inspector somewhere who clearly didn’t do his job during the construction of this building—his kitchen is a death trap and I‘m not just saying that because we are trapped in here like lobsters in a pot full of salty water that is slowly being warmed to a rolling boil. In hindsight, I think we were better off in the lobby where there were multiple exits and at least the illusion, if not outright possibility, of escape. Why did I choose this location again? Oh yeah, because I am an idiot, without a lick of military experience, other than what I’ve learned playing video games. And despite the fact that I have racked my brain and fried it by spending way too many hours manipulating a controller in front of an oversized screen, I can’t think of a single video game involving guns, magic, witches locked in freezers, government agents with fancy gadgets, hotel kitchens, and packs of bloodthirsty werewolves. I think it is fair to say that I am not really swimming in familiar waters. Note to self: if I survive this, I need to read some books on generic battle tactics and email every game company in existence and pitch them a game idea based on my fucked-up life.

  The only potential upsides I see to being pinned down in this kitchen are that there is plenty to eat, that is if you’re into moldy foods or peanut butter, and let’s not forget that the single entrance creates a bottleneck, which I had assumed would force the wolves to come at us one at time—I assumed wrong.

  The emergency light flickers and the wolves are instantly upon us, seemingly coming at us from all sides. They bypass the doorway, our killing field, entering the kitchen by bursting through the walls themselves. The air is suddenly filled with clouds of gypsum wallboard dust, which makes it even harder to see in the dimly lit kitchen. Guns sing all around me. Wolves howl, grunt, and scream in pain. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Agent Spears collapse as a werewolf rips his arm clean off with its powerful jaw. Even without his arm, he has the discipline and wherewithal to press the gun in his other hand to the head of his attacker and pull the trigger, spraying wolf blood and brain matter against the stainless-steel backsplash. The overpowering scent of copper mixed with chalk assaults my nostrils.

  I quickly scan the kitchen for Wilson, I start to panic when I can’t immediately find him. He’s moved from his firing position, and there is too much chaos, blood, and dust in the air. The outline of a large werewolf rushes through the dust fog towards me with its claws extended, intending to rip me limb from limb.

  I’m holding the two knives tightly in my fists in a reverse grip with the blades pointed down and behind me. I imagine I look like a movie villain. I have always found it ironic that whenever there is a knife fight in the movies, the hero always holds the knife with the blade up and out like a sword on display for the world to see and uses it to parry and stab—and only in self-defense; while the villain disguises his attacks by holding the knife with a reverse grip, blade pointed towards the floor, and uses it to slash from unexpected angles. Hollywood has a distorted view of the world. In the real world, the hero doesn’t always stand in the light and the villain doesn’t always hide in the shadows. Sometimes there is no hero, and sometimes, the villain stands in the light and the hero hides in the shadows.

  Frankly, I could give a fuck whether I am viewed as a hero or a villain; I am the hero of my own story . . . well, sometimes . . . sometimes, I’m also the villain in my own story . . . regardless, all I care about is that me and mine are the ones riding into the sunset when the curtains close. If that means I must apply some less than honorable tactics, then so be it. Fighting fair is for the dead and soon to be dead. In the immortal words of DJ Khalid, “All we do is win, win, win, no matter what.” Those are words to live by.

  Time slows, I am getting good at consciously turning my Battle Sense on and off. It’s all the training Sinn has been putting me through. Lately, she adopted the Patches O’Hoolihan drilling method and has take
n to just throwing things at me when I am not paying attention. It started with tennis balls and progressed to anything within her arm’s reach. We are running out of coffee mugs at the office. #IfYouCanDodgeAWrench.

  I drop to my knees, just below the outstretched claws rushing towards me, while crossing my arms tightly across my chest with the blades pointed away from my body towards the oncoming wolf. The handle of the knife in my right hand is braced on my left shoulder and the knife in my left hand is braced on my right shoulder. I tuck my chin to my chest and tense for impact as the wolf’s lower abdomen impales itself onto my knives. As the knives sink into the hairy flesh all the way to the handles, I use all the strength I have in my triceps to rip the blades free, uncrossing my arms, sending abdominal flesh and werewolf intestines in all directions. My arms are now fully extended, blades pointed behind me. I hold the pose a beat longer than I should, I feel like I just completed a Mortal Combat finishing move.

  I can’t help it if I am a bit of a showboater; it’s part of my DNA and it carries over to all aspects of my life. When I hit a three on the basketball court, I typically leave my hand up for just a second longer than I should; or if I am feeling really frisky, I give a Curry shake. Or If I’m playing softball and I hit a home run, I’ll flip the bat, and then walk the bases, as slows as I can. I do it to remind my opponent, yeah, I hit that shit, what you gonna do about it? You don’t like it, stop me. This is kinda like that, except my opponent is bleeding out, his life fleeing his body, while I pose and inhale unhealthy amounts of gypsum dust. In retrospect, my showboating is probably in poor taste, but in the immortal words of Sidney Deane, “It is hard goddamn work being this good.”

  The wolf falls forward and I use its momentum to flip it over my shoulders by standing and thrusting my weight forward. As it tumbles over me, I’m showered with warm blood and bodily fluids. I have to choke down the little bit of vomit that fills my mouth. My black suit is ruined, no amount of dry cleaning can save it now, which sucks—I just bought this one.