Authors: Alice Degan
“This is very fresh. You two gentlemen are lucky that you booked with us when you did, because the information that I’m about to give you just became available to us this morning. I was on a routine fieldwork assignment in Kensington Market—I know, not the most glamorous of locales, but very often we find the worst Threats lurking in the strangest places.” That was the collective term she’d decided on. It was definitely capitalized, the way she said it. “What I happened upon this morning—” Damn. She hadn’t meant to say
happened upon
; she had meant to say
ferreted out
. “Sometimes we talk about ‘nests’, places where we’ve found numerous Threats banding together for protection.” They didn’t, but it sounded good. “What I found today is nothing less than a
hive
—a kind of boarding house, an organized enterprise, housing all kinds of supernatural Threats. There is at least one confirmed vampire on the premises. There may be more. There is some other, very strange stuff. There’s an underage satyr … ” This drew a laugh from the clients. “There’s a four-hundred-year-old samurai who was trapped in a painting. But, for our purposes, most important of all: there’s a werewolf.
“Now. Let me explain for you gentlemen who are new to this. Werewolves are a lot rarer than vampires—in cities,
very
rare. But there’s more. This particular specimen is what we call a bimorphic werewolf.” And by “we” she meant Wikipedia. Nobody at Stake had a clue. “What I mean by that is: he changes form at will.” A whistle from the younger client. “That’s right. We don’t really know much about these beasts. We know there’s some kind of compulsion involved—they
have
to spend part of their time as wolves, doing the things that wolves usually do.”
“In downtown Toronto?” the elder client burst out.
“Yes, sir. In downtown Toronto.”
Preying on the occasional squirrel when he got hungry. Hanging out with a bunch of homeless people who called him Silver and thought he was some kind of dog. Having a hard time finishing high school … But she had gone over all of that earlier, and dismissed it from her mind. He was a supernatural, capital-T Threat. He was a target.
“Forget what you think you know about the full moon—it doesn’t apply. This is the least common, the most dangerous kind of werewolf. And that’s what we’ll be facing tonight. Now, Mr. Seevers will explain to you our plan of action.”
•
•
•
As it turned out, the moon was almost full. It reflected off the snow, giving the night an eerie brightness. Clare locked her car and walked to the library. It was nearly one o’clock, on a weeknight, and the university campus was deserted. It had been a good choice, she thought with satisfaction.
She had been on hunts before, but only as a spectator; tonight she would play a more crucial role. She lingered just inside the library’s revolving doors, hands in her pockets. A few industrious students were still here, working on the computers in the part of the library that stayed open all night. She had told Nick that she was a grad student, just because that was what had popped into her head (and because she could imagine some of the graduate students she’d met being undead or inhuman). Then it had provided a good excuse to suggest that he meet her at the library after his night’s deliveries were done.
He rode up on an ungainly delivery bike with a big wooden carrier attached to the front. It looked empty. He pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, which promptly fell back in his eyes.
“Hi, Nick!” Clare emerged from one of the revolving doors.
“Hey.” He leaned on the handlebars of his bike. “I didn’t keep you waiting, did I? I’m a bit late.”
“No! It’s nice of you to come meet me.”
“Sure. Oh, um—” He reached down into the bottom of carrier, and presented her with a small box, tied with string. “Buns. For you.” He grinned.
“Aw, thanks—you didn’t have to.” She opened her purse and stowed the box inside. She would eat those later.
“Well, pretty soon you’ll have your own direct supply, right? Anyway, this is just to tide you over. So, where do you have to walk?”
That simplified matters. Clare had not been entirely sure what excuse she was going to give him, but he evidently assumed he was here just to walk her home. She never had told him what kind of inhuman creature she was supposed to be, but he obviously thought it wasn’t a very tough one. For the moment that suited her all right.
“I get the streetcar on Dundas, so … ”
“Let’s go.”
They set off down St. George, Nick wheeling his bicycle. He asked about her research, and she made up something on the spur of the moment about studying the portrayal of Others in the media. He seemed impressed. She smirked inwardly.
“Seriously? You can do that kind of thing at university?”
“Oh, sure,” said Clare, because for all she knew you could.
“I’ve been thinking I’d like to apply, once I get enough credits to graduate. I think my grades are good enough, but I don’t know if I could afford to go.”
“Wouldn’t your parents help?” said Clare, for the sake of saying something.
Nick laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No … why?”
“Come on, Clare, I thought you were writing your thesis on Others! Couldn’t you figure out that I’ve got six older brothers? We don’t all have the same mother—but it’s seventh son of a seventh
son
that counts. Anyway, my parents have got
no
money. They couldn’t even afford bail the last time Tony got caught jacking a car.”
“Oh,” said Clare, not totally following that. “That’s … um, too bad.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments, then Nick said, “You know, if you want, if you’re staying late at the library a lot, I can walk you home any time. It’s probably not a good idea for you to walk by yourself. I mean—I’m sure you can handle yourself and everything, and I don’t mean because you’re a girl at all. It’s just that I don’t know if you know, but there are people—I don’t know what, they think they’re on
Buffy
or something, but they go on these hunts. There’s actually a company that organizes them, called Stake. Apparently it’s really expensive, and you basically have to be really rich to afford it. Mostly they go after vampires, because … I don’t know, they think that’s cool or something. But Rose has heard of dryads getting hunted in High Park. You know what dryads are, right? They’re tree spirits—they’re totally harmless.”
Clare’s annoyance had been mounting as she listened to this caricature of her employers, but the bit about the dryads was the last straw. She knew which hunt he was talking about; she’d heard Serena, who organized that one, personally commended by Seevers. Serena had billed them as “wood vampires” or something, and he’d said it was “innovative.” Nobody had known they were goddamn
tree spirits
.
“Oh, shut up,” she snapped. “You’re not totally harmless—you turn into a fucking wolf. And you know what? I’m
so
sick of people comparing Stake to
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. Stake was founded in 1989. We had the idea before
Buffy
—and Stake isn’t some TV show, it’s reality. It’s real life.”
He was staring at her, eyes wide and terrified. “‘
We
had the idea … ’ God. Oh, God. That’s why Rose hadn’t told Tacky you were coming. You’re a spy from Stake.”
“A
field agent
,” Clare corrected him. In a detached sort of way she was amazed by how frightened he looked. After all, she was hardly dangerous.
“And you didn’t … you didn’t know about Seven C, before … Fuck.” The expletive sounded almost like a prayer, there was so much feeling in it. “I was the one who let you into the apartment. What have I
done
?”
“I wouldn’t worry so much about that,” said Clare, surprised. “I’d worry about myself at this point, if I were you.”
He looked numbly at her. “Because you’re going to kill me, right?”
“No, I’m not.” She pulled her purse off her shoulder and dug inside for the papers. “Why would I? What
I
am going to do is get you to sign a waiver, so that
if
the client succeeds in killing you, your family with their seven sons, or whatever, can’t sue Stake, because you were a willing participant in a game that went wrong.”
“And how are you going to get me to sign that?” he asked, looking at the papers in her hand.
“I’m going to tell you: you can sign this, or we’ll raid Seven C.” She held out the pen.
“You … you’re going to do that anyway,” he said helplessly. “But—I can’t just
watch
.” He took the pen.
He scribbled a signature on the line that Clare showed him. She refolded the papers and tucked them back in her purse, next to the box of buns that he had brought for her. The street around them was silent and still.
“I’m seventeen, Clare,” he said suddenly. “I’ve never been … I’ve never travelled anywhere, or been on a date, or … I don’t … I don’t even know what else I haven’t done—I don’t want to die!”
She looked at him. He was pleading with her. The successful Clare noted it with a detached amazement. She wondered if he thought he was talking to the other Clare, the Clare that she had imagined earlier, who had been reluctant to proceed, who’d thought,
He’s just a teenager, just a harmless kid.
But how would he know about that Clare? She didn’t exist.
“Nobody wants to,” the real Clare snapped. “Everybody has to.”
Are you sure you can handle prepping the target
? Seevers had asked.
Of course
, Clare had said, and meant it. She was a professional; of course she could handle this. It hadn’t been hard to get him to sign the waiver, either; a vague threat had been all that she needed. And it wasn’t going to be hard to get him to run for the hunters. He was scared. He was crying. He was seventeen; he didn’t want to die.
Are you sure you can handle it
? Fuck that! Did Seevers think just because she was a woman she didn’t have what it took? She was going to show him. She was going to show all of them.
“You’ve got to run,” Clare said. “The clients want a chase. They’re amateurs—there’s always a chance you might get away. So run. It’s in everyone’s best interest. Jake and Laurence—they’re Stake employees. They’re out there to make sure the clients get a good hunt. That means they’ll try to stop you getting away, but they won’t kill you. Honestly, if you get away, it’s good for us. One less target we have to locate next time. And werewolves are really rare. I don’t know if you knew that. The clients are a man and a boy about your age. They’re the ones who are going for the kill.”
He was looking at her with desolate, hollow eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want it to look good. This is the first hunt I’ve pitched and prepped all on my own. Make it look good for me. Okay? Will you do that for me?” She drew off her glove and touched the side of his face. He was kind of a cute kid, after all. Not sexy like Takehiko, of course. But if he
was
going to die, he could at least go with the memory of one kiss.
He slapped her hand away and recoiled with a look of disgust and horror that startled Clare more than anything else that day. The bicycle clattered to the ground and he stepped away from it.
“Watch out, Clare,” he said. He looked calm now, but the tears still glistened on his face. “They’ll be hunting you next. I don’t think you’re human.”
And he ran. He pelted off down the wide, empty sidewalk, his open jacket flapping as he ran. Clare fumbled for her phone, still stunned by his reaction to her attempted kiss. He had acted as if she were ugly, or something. As if she were an ugly
man
. And when he had said that—
I don’t think you’re human
—he hadn’t meant,
You’re one of us
. He had meant:
You’re a monster
.
“Jake, it’s Clare. We have compliance.”
“We can see that,” came Jake’s voice, dryly.
Jake and Laurence moved out onto the sidewalk, blocking Nick’s way. They were both armed with the light crossbows they used on real hunts. Nick turned and ran down a path between two rows of lights on low posts. He had something in his hand as he ran, Clare saw. A cell phone. She should have checked for that, should have confiscated it. Shit.
Laurence had seen the phone too, and shot a bolt that caused the boy to drop it onto the pavement. Jake and Laurence followed him down the path. Clare ran to catch up. By the time she reached the end of the rows of lights, Nick had disappeared from sight, but she could still see Jake, stationed at one end of the area they had chosen as the primary hunting ground. She ran down to join him.
“The fucking kid had a mobile!” Jake had picked up the phone and was holding it in the hand that was not occupied with his crossbow. “And he called someone, too—but it wasn’t the cops.”
“Where is he?”
“Down there.” Jake gestured with the crossbow. “Dropped his coat, for some reason, and kept running. Laurence followed him down, to make sure he doesn’t get out the other end. The punters are down around the corner there.”
They were standing in front of the physics building, looking down a narrow, enclosed stretch between two buildings, hidden from the street on both sides. There were raised walkways along the edges, beside the buildings, and between them an artfully landscaped strip, now crusted with snow, looking like a small piece of fake tundra. Nick’s jacket lay flopped on the frozen grass halfway down. At the far end was a snow-filled fountain basin and a sculpture made of tall poles that glowed mauve at the top. For a moment it was very quiet.
Then there was a noise of running feet and excited shouts from around the far corner of the physics building, and a lean, silver-grey wolf shot out from among the poles of the sculpture to leap over the snow-filled fountain. The clients came storming delightedly after it, brandishing their own crossbows. Laurence jogged casually out after them.
“That was fucking
awesome
!” the son was yelling. “That was better than CGI! Did you see that?”
“I guess they got to see him change form,” said Jake, hefting his crossbow into position. “Whatever.”
The wolf came racing down the strip of fake tundra, but drew up short at a couple of warning shots from Jake. It stood there, ears laid back, tail between its legs. Clare could hear it whimpering. It was pretty in a way that Clare had not at all expected. Its fur was glossy and soft-looking, and quite white on its throat and down its legs. Its eyes were a pale yellow-green. She couldn’t remember what colour Nick’s eyes had been.