The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  I keep my Battle Sense active and quickly assess the kitchen. Agent Spears is down and not moving. There is a lot of blood pooled on the floor beneath where his arm used to be attached to his shoulder. He looks dead. At least he took one with him. A werewolf lies beside him with a bullet-sized hole in its head. I’m not an expert on the regenerative abilities of werewolves, but it’s a pretty big fucking hole. I can see right through it. I’d be shocked if it got back up.

  Another wolf lies dead at the feet of Agent Franklin. It’s riddled with golf ball-sized bullet holes. What the hell was his gun firing? Franklin’s favoring his right leg, and blood is flowing from a nasty claw mark on his right side. He’s going to have a nasty scar, but he’ll live. He’s reloading his hand cannon while his eyes search the large werewolf-sized holes in the drywall for more danger. Without even looking down, he places another bullet in the forehead of the wolf lying below him. He must not be a fan of horror movies, at least not of the final scenes where the supposedly dead monster comes back to life for one last scare.

  I finally locate Wilson; he looks unharmed and is trying to drag a bloody werewolf corpse off Sergeant Graham. Graham is alive and moving . . . barely. He is bleeding profusely from a head wound and has cuts all over his body. He looks like he went ten rounds with Freddy Krueger. If he survives, he’s going to need a lot of plastic surgery and even more therapy. Not sensing any further danger, I shut my Battle Sense off, and time resumes its normal flow.

  Agent Franklin is staring at me with a perplexed look on his face. His eyes move slowly from my knives to the dead werewolf at my feet. I think he’s surprised I was able to take a werewolf out with a pair of kitchen knives without getting so much as a scratch on me. I am only supposed to be human, after all, and no human should be fast or strong enough to do that. I doubt he’ll believe it if I tell him I just got lucky. Looks like the MPH will be studying the tape from the MR with a fine-tooth comb trying to figure out how I did what I did. I’m betting my file will be getting a whole lot thicker. Fortunately, that’s a problem for another day.

  I check Agent Spears for a pulse. Agent Franklin looks at me hopefully, but Spears doesn’t have one. I deliver the bad news with a shake of my head. Franklin grimaces and nods. The entire battle lasted less than thirty seconds and now there is an agent who will never go home and four werewolves who will never howl at another moon, and for what? I still don’t really understand what the hell is going on, or why these wolves want me dead, but I am going to find out.

  I turn to Agent Franklin, “Is there someone you can call to get this place cleaned up and get Sergeant Graham some help?”

  Franklin nods and he searches the floor for his cell phone. It must have gotten knocked off the counter during the melee. It must be somewhere under a table or one of these bodies. After a moment he gives up and retrieves a cellphone from Agent Spears’ pocket. “We’ll take care of the mess.”

  “Good luck, I’m sorry about your partner. Wilson, with me.” I don’t wait for a response; I head directly for the freezer; it’s time for Goldilocks to meet the Lycanthrope.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wilson, Cinnamon, and I step through a gate into my Oakland office. Joycee looks up from her desk where she is typing away on a computer in surprise. Her eyes linger on Cinnamon, her trashy clothes and bottle-blonde hair, and an expression of immediate dislike takes hold.

  “Wilson, tie her”— I point to Cinnamon— “to a chair and put a gag in her mouth. Joycee, lock up. The office is closed for the day.”

  Joycee jumps up and locks the front door, reacting immediately to the angry tone in my voice.

  Wilson’s brow furrows at the gag comment. He, however, recognizes the seriousness in my tone, and without treating us to his typical back talk, he leads Cinnamon to a conference table chair, and then retrieves some bungies out of a toolbox he keeps under his desk, and a rag from under the sink by the coffee machine, and he begins tying and gagging her. Wilson’s a good soldier and will follow orders even if he doesn’t necessarily agree with them. The gag is probably not necessary; still, after the day I’ve had, I think a little extra caution is warranted. She is a witch, and I still don’t have a full grasp on what a witch can and cannot do. Better to be overly cautious than sorry, and, frankly, the idea of gagging Cinnamon gives me a micron of pleasure. As far as I am concerned, she is responsible for Agent Spear’s death, and she deserves worse than a little discomfort.

  Cinnamon remains uncharacteristically quiet while Wilson ties and gags her. Her eyes are following my every move. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear actual concern peeked out from behind those witchy blues. I am momentarily distracted by the vibration of my phone. It’s a text, a picture of a restroom. There are no urinals, no pee on the floor; it's too clean to be a men’s room, Sinn must be ready for pick up. A restroom is a relatively safe place, away from prying eyes, to await a gate.

  “Wilson, when you’re finished tying and gagging her,” I emphasize the word gagging, “arm yourself, just in case we get any company. I’m going to pick up Sinn and run an errand. If there’s any sign of trouble, text me. Pre-write a text that says we need help now, so all you have to do is hit send, if trouble arrives. Joycee, you should both do that. If you text, I will be back in a flash. Do not, either of you” —I make eye contact first with Wilson and then Joycee— “risk your lives for this one.” I gesture towards Cinnamon with the phone I am still holding. “If she gives you any trouble, shoot her.”

  Cinnamon gulps down some air in surprise but doesn’t try and speak through her gag.

  “If danger shows up, run. Barricade yourself in one of the rooms upstairs until I get here. Don’t try and be heroes. Your lives mean more to me then this twat or anything in this office. Everything in the office except for you two is replaceable. Do you understand?”

  Both Joycee and Wilson nod. “We’ll be fine, boss,” answers Joycee. “Run your errand. If this barfly gives us any trouble, I’ll shoot her myself.” Joycee’s tone actually sends shivers through me. It’s cold, detached, almost robotic. She means what she says. Sometimes, she is an emotional hurricane, complete with wind and waterworks, and other times, like this, she is completely devoid of anything resembling compassion or humanity. It is times like this when I am afraid for her, afraid for all of us.

  Wilson steals a look at me, communicating concern and doubt, silently revisiting a conversation we’ve had repeatedly about whether working here is the best thing for Joycee. The truth is, I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. I am starting to think Wilson was right in the first place, and it’s not even my choice. Regardless, I don’t have time to revisit this right now. I consider giving Joycee a hug and telling her everything will be all right . . . but I don’t. I don’t know why; I want to, I feel like I should . . . but I don’t. Instead, I play the emotional chicken, a familiar role for me, nod, turn to the blank wall behind Sinn’s desk, and draw a gate to the bathroom pictured in the text Sinn sent me and step through into a woman’s restroom.

  I’m good in the courtroom, some might even say great, but when it comes to interacting with Joycee, or Sinn for that matter—although Sinn is a whole different problem—I never know what the right move to make is. Wilson is easy, he is as emotionally barren as I am. We fit; in a strange way we complete each other; he’s my rock. With Joycee, I just feel lost, like a house cat kidnapped by strangers, driven hundreds of miles from its home and thrown out the window of a moving car into a gator-infested swamp. When I’m lost there’s only one thing I know to do—pick a direction and keep going. Keep putting one paw in front of the other and keep marching through the muck. That, and pray I picked the right direction. #ToStopMovingForwardIsToDie.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I don’t have time to wait.” I exhale deeply to release some of the pent-up frustration causing me to speak in a louder than normal voice. “I need to see Arianna Soot, right now!” Sinn and I have been waiting in the lobby of this San Francisco high-rise
for nearly thirty minutes and any patience I may have arrived with has long ago departed. I’m about one cup of coffee away from burning this building to the ground.

  I force myself to look down at the floor, away from the guard manning the front desk, because I’m afraid of what I might do if I continue to engage. I’ve noticed my temper is steadily becoming unmanageable. Ever since Pavo’s death, after which I awoke with this god-forsaken ring stuck to my finger, I’ve felt this rage building inside of me. It’s growing and it is becoming difficult to control. More and more, I lash out at people for inconveniences that I would have—at least in my old life, my life before I knew monsters existed—accepted without question as just part and parcel to everyday modern existence. I’m changing and it scares me.

  For the three hundredth time since I arrived, I survey the lobby, seeking any signs of danger. You could say the morning's events have hoisted me onto a razor’s edge. Fortunately, the lobby is nearly barren and the only violence I foresee is that which I may cause if Arianna Soot doesn’t get her ass down here and soon. The only pieces of furniture on the ground floor of this financial district skyscraper, besides the fossil manning the front desk, are five white leather couches, positioned in the very center of the building, facing each other, arraigned around a pentagon-shaped coffee table. A bank of elevators line one wall; and the security desk, where I’ve been standing arguing with the security guard, is positioned near the glass-doored entrance. The large, opulent marble lobby is otherwise empty. It screams we are rich and can afford not to use the entire first floor of the building, even at nearly two hundred dollars per square foot, per month, which is what I’ve read is the going rate for commercial space in the city’s high-priced financial district. Financial District rent prices seem about as reasonable as a twelve-dollar coke at a gentlemen’s club; that’s San Francisco for you. I must admit, the minimalist marble lobby makes an impression; I’m just not sure it’s a good one. The couch pentagon is a bit cliché for my taste, even for a coven of witches, and the name of the corporation they operate out of this building, Broomstick.com, a travel booking website, is over the top. I imagine they thought the name was ironic—broomsticks, travel, witches, hiding in plain sight and all—I think it’s stupid.

  The security guard, Morty—at least that’s what his name tag reads—all ninety years of him, doesn’t seem all that impressed with my theatrics. “Sir, please take a seat,” he directs in a mechanical tone intended to vacuum the hostility out of the room. “There is no need to raise your voice. Miss Soot is in a meeting. Someone will be down to help you shortly.” Morty motions towards the couches where Sinn is already seated.

  I’m trying my darndest not to make a scene; the problem is, this is the fourth time he has given me the same bullshit sit and wait line. Arianna Soot’s transparent power play, designed to piss me off by making me wait, is working better than I’d like to admit. I get it, it’s quid-pro-quo, or tit for tat, or goose versus gander, whatever you want to call it. Arianna Soot is making me wait as payback for the treatment she received at my office a few months ago. What really sticks in my craw is that I am arguably the architect of my own frustration. I could have been more hospitable when Arianna visited my office. I could have, probably should have, tried to foster a friendly relationship with the Coven, rather than an antagonist one—but where would the fun have been in that?

  I really want to keep arguing with gramps, maybe take his metal canister and shove it where the sun don’t shine, but I realize that’s not a good idea. The optic of railing at a ninety-year-old geriatric who’s hooked up to a portable oxygen tank isn’t a great one. I am sure the Coven’s selection in security guards was intentional. Probably intended to diffuse situations like this or alternatively to gain blackmail leverage. These days there is always a security camera or a cell phone pointed in your direction, and the last thing I need is for the AARP to picket my law firm; or, even worse, have some jerk-off post the video on the internet and designate me with some clever moniker like Christopher-Codger, or Front-Desk-Franco. I know it’s usually white women who get the internet racist meme treatment, but there’s no reason to tempt fate. In my experience, the internet does not discriminate when it comes to spewing and disseminating hate. I’m just as viable a target as Corner-Store-Cathy or Water-Park-Wendy.

  I pick my pride up off the floor, wring my hands in defeat and turn back towards the sitting area where Sinn is waiting. She looks equally frustrated, maybe even more so. Although her frustration stems from being here at all. And, if I am being honest, a fair amount of it is directed at me. Had I given her a choice, I’m pretty sure she would not have joined me on this excursion. Apparently, in real life, vampires and witches don’t get along. Fancy that. I guess I was misinformed. I should probably stop relying on television for my vampire and witch information. I mean, Willow and Angel were friends. So were Damon and Bonnie. Who knew television got it so wrong?

  My mental digression is interrupted as Sinn anticipatorily stands and turns towards the elevator bank. She slightly bends her knees, tenses her muscles, and readies herself. Her stance would appear normal to the untrained eye, but anyone trained in martial arts could see plain as day, she’s coiled and prepared for a fight. During our training sessions, she emphasizes how important it is to always be ready to act; life is unexpected and danger can come from all directions. She likes to say, If you’re not ready to fight, you’re ready to die. I used to think she was just high-strung and that it's crazy to live your life in a constant state of fear, but I’m starting to see the wisdom in her approach. The fact is, everybody keeps trying to kill me. In my case, a healthy dose of paranoia could go a long way towards keeping me alive to see my next birthday. I follow Sinn’s lead, trusting her heightened vampire senses, and ready myself for the unexpected. The elevator doors slide open and a pale, bookish, college-age girl in a black, baby doll dress, with a white-collar, black knee-high socks, dull black shoes, and dual braids, emerges. I stare, half expecting Gomez and Morticia to be lurching behind her. She is not at all what I expected. This entire business is a walking cliché. There is no way they could get away with this shit in any other city than San Francisco.

  “Mr. Valentine, Miss Palatinus, this way please.” The Wednesday look alike, ushers us into the plain elevator. There aren’t any interior buttons or screens of any kind. There isn’t even an emergency phone. It’s just a simple and elegant brushed metal box with a plush, red-carpeted floor. It must be controlled from a security room somewhere above. The doors close behind us and the lift rises at a much quicker than expected rate. I swallow and concentrate on keeping my lunch down. After about twelve seconds of rapid ascent, the elevator suddenly decelerates and comes to a smooth stop. There are no floor identifiers to tell us where we are getting off. All I know is it felt like we climbed a long way up. The doors open and Wednesday directs us down a hall into a very normal-looking conference room with a long table and a breathtaking view of the city. We are definitely high up, at least thirty floors.

  There are two women I immediately recognize—Arianna and her daughter Vanessa, already seated at the white stone conference room table. Sinn gives me a dark look; she is not a fan of witches in general and even less of a fan of Arianna and her daughter. I am pretty sure with these two witches, in particular, Sinn spells witches with a capital B. That’s partially why I didn’t tell her where we were going when we gated here. I let her figure it out on her own after we arrived in the lobby and she could no longer refuse to come. In my limited experience, it is generally better to seek forgiveness than ask permission, particularly when dealing with vindictive vampire women.

  The face of a third woman, one I don’t recognize, one who looks like she could be the great-grandmother of the geriatric security guard back on the first floor, is projected in high definition on a screen that is positioned at the head of the conference table. This ancient woman makes old age look disgusting, so much so, that just looking at her makes you want to die young.
She has large, milky, cataracted, white eyes; messy, black, stringy, wet hair, with what looks like nests of insects caught in it; and her aged and wrinkled skin has an unnatural puke-green glow to it. There is something feral about her, and my spider-sense or paladin sense, whatever you want to call it, is warning me that she is dangerous—even through the monitor.

  Arianna flashes me a calculated smile, neither expressing pleasure nor disappointment in my presence. Her daughter, Vanessa, merely nods, barely acknowledging my existence. I am stricken by the uncanny resemblance the two share. It is hard to believe they are mother and daughter and not sisters. Unlike the terrorocity on the monitor, Arianna has aged spectacularly. The two younger witches are extremely attractive, in a sexy suicide-girls kind of way. I grin back at Arianna, while a dirty, mother-daughter threesome fantasy traipses across the recesses of my demented mind.

  Sinn frowns at the witches, refusing to greet them, and then gives me a disapproving stare, causing the frat boy smirk to vanish from my face. It’s almost like she can read my mind. It is hard to be a man, we are weak-minded creatures. If there is a pretty girl in the room, odds are, even in the presence of imminent danger, we’re thinking about boning her. How has our gender survived? It’s a miracle.

  Sinn and I take a seat across the table from Arianna and her daughter. Once we are as comfortable as we are going to get, the old woman on the television says in a unexpectedly pleasant voice, “A good day to you, Mr. Valentine. I have heard many things about you. I am Ginny. I am sorry I can’t be there in person to meet you. I am currently trapped here.”

  The way she says trapped, makes me believe there is something more to it than simply being out of town or on holiday.