The Night Has Teeth (15 page)

Arden nods deferentially. We walk together by the
roughly hewn bar to meet fate. Truth be told, the hand on my
shoulder sort of propels me forward, and my legs are simply too
weak to resist. We meet Boadicea at the far end of the bar. Her
companions hang back, attentive and on edge. The pair is a
contrast. One is sandy blond and olive-skinned while the other is
dark-haired and pale. What they share in common is their builds:
broad-shouldered, squat but muscular. Glancing back, I see that
Josh has noticed the guys who are presumably hitting on Madison,
and it provides a welcome distraction from what’s about to
happen.

“You’ve brought your fight to the wrong place,”
Arden lets her know right away.

“I’m not here to fight.”

“Your friends say otherwise.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, I’m not a
fool,” she tells him silkily. “Consider them insurance.”

He huffs.

“You haven’t precisely been welcoming. I needed
peace of mind.”

I interject. “While all this banter is fun, how
about we cut to the chase?”

“Yes, let’s.” Boadicea turns her green eyes on me.
“All I want is the opportunity to explain. I’m sure my story is no
more sinister than what they’ve told you about themselves. It’s
only fair, isn’t it?”

“Your boss, Boguet, he’s not exactly―”

“What do you truly know right now, Connor? Until
you’ve heard both sides, you’re only aware of partial
truths.”

“All I want is my life back. I wouldn’t be
involved in any of this if it wasn’t for you.”

“Are you so sure? You’ve cast me in a dark light.
Perhaps I’m not the one you should be afraid of, Connor. Perhaps
the wolf at the door has already entered your house.”

My confidence wavers. Amara and Arden have done
nothing but protect me. But from what? And why? I look over at
Arden, whose eyes stare ahead. He brought me to a werewolf bar. Why
would he do that? Of course, I’ve had my doubts about Arden since
the get-go. But what about Amara? Has she just been playing me?

“All I’m asking is for you to give me the same
benefit of the doubt you’ve given them.”

She reaches out to touch my arm, but Arden pulls me
back forcefully. I feel like a puppet. Maybe they’ve been
manipulating me all along, pulling strings and making me dance.
Like, as Arden so loves to call me, a fool.

“I promise I won’t bite.”

The words pull the life out of me.

“I’m kidding,” she responds with a kind
smile.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Boadicea laughs in that enchanting way of hers.
“You’ll be perfectly safe. After all, we’re surrounded, aren’t
we?”

What would I have to lose, really? She wouldn’t do
anything crazy, not in a crowded place like this. I’m about to
succumb to her charm, thinking that maybe then she’ll leave me
alone and I can get my life back, free from the supernatural. But
the other two are on the move, their eyes trained on Arden. No, not
him. Someone behind us. Arden is the first to look back, and I
follow his gaze. We see Amara standing at the entrance. At that
moment a soft hand slips into mine, followed by the warm breath of
Boadicea as she whispers against my ear.

“Come with me.”

Arden’s head spins back and he lets out a ferocious
snarl that sets my heart racing. Up close, it’s the first time I’ve
really seen the animal in human form: the lips pulled back,
exposing long canine teeth, the wildness in his eyes directed at
one target with the clear intent to kill. Boadicea pulls back,
still holding my hand, and I can see it in her too, the savage
wolf, the one that could rip me to shreds in a second without any
hesitation. Her companions flank her quickly, and by the flash of
fangs and flex of muscles, I have the sense that somehow a line has
been crossed. Everything seems to be happening in double time.
Before any blood can be drawn, Roul leaps over the bar and stands
between them. My hand slips free from Boadicea’s as a distance is
placed around the bartender, who I now suspect is more than a mixer
of drinks. The werewolves lower their heads, chastened.

“There’s a place for this,” he says
piercingly.

As he points ahead to the curtained room, I feel
Amara’s presence on my other side. Although she has a way of
putting me at ease, I feel we’re in the thick of it and there’s
nothing she can say or do to placate my fears.

“What do those words above the doorway mean?” I
ask her quietly.

“It is Latin,” she replies. “It means: prepare for
war.”

Arden slips out of his leather jacket and hands it
to Roul. He barks out an order. “Go home, Connor.”

“Wait, what?”

Amara tries to calm my anxiety, but her words are of
zero comfort. “There are three of them. The odds are not in our
favor.”

“Go
home
,”
Arden repeats.

He hates having to use words and is loathe to repeat
himself. From the emphasis of his words, I get that he doesn’t mean
for me to return to the flat. He wants me to get on a plane.
Something terrible is about to happen. I put it together then. Josh
wasn’t far off in his assessment. Beyond the curtains lies a death
match. They’re about to make the greatest sacrifice. For me. How
could I have doubted their friendship?

“No,” I state firmly. “Whatever’s going on here,
it has everything to do with me. I’m the one that brought this. The
least I can do is―”

“Watch,” Arden says. “That’s the only thing you
can do here.”

I know. We all know. But saying it out loud makes it
real. I’m aware that Roul’s hand has slipped onto my shoulder in
place of Arden’s as the combatants move toward the closed off room.
Spectators follow behind them.

“Where’s everyone going?” Madison asks as she
appears ahead of me, standing on her toes in a futile effort to
peer over all the heads.

Roul turns his attention to her and Josh. He has a
commanding authority in his very stance that doesn’t bear
questioning, so when he speaks, even she’s forced to comply.

“You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Sensing the severity of the situation, Josh steps
protectively in front of her and juts his chin toward me in a
motion to leave. We’re being tossed out of the bar. I have never
felt so completely useless in my entire life. I have no idea what
to do, knowing there’s nothing I can do. Even if I’d ever been in a
real fight, I’d be no match for any one of them. But none of that
matters just now. I shrug away from Roul’s lax grip and charge
ahead. Behind me, Madison protests, but my friends are being held
back by the werewolf. Pushing past the curtain and the crowd, I
make my way into the wide inner circle that has formed around the
centre of the room. There are a number of bruised and bloodied men
and women in our midst, bandaging wounds while onlookers shout and
jeer at the upcoming fight. The earthen floor is damp, slick with
blood. I catch them in mid-transformation as they emerge from the
crowd. There are five wolves, their fur coats similar in shade to
their human hair. Instinctively, I try to back away, but the room
is packed with spectators and I’m jostled forward. Observing how
prone I am to attack, the wolf forms of Amara and Arden position
themselves protectively in front of me.

At first there’s a good deal of posturing by all the
animals, which hunker down, flashing teeth, pawing at the ground.
One of the male wolves makes the first move. He leaps into action,
trying to take out Amara with a heavy sand-colored paw. They tussle
around on the muddy ground, fur glistening from the blood. Then the
other charges at Arden, who dodges gracefully and uses the momentum
to toss his opponent into the crowd. While he recovers, Boadicea
takes her chance and lunges at his throat. He manages to pull back
in time for her to grab on to a lock of hair, which she tears out.
It’s minor in comparison to what could have just happened, but he
lets out a yelp all the same. Amara pushes off her attacker to come
to his aid. By now, the other wolf has recovered from his stumble
and has his sights set on her. As he begins his charge, I can see
that her concern for Arden’s compromised position is distracting
her from defending herself.

“Amara―”

I step out into the arena with the intent of pushing
her out of harm’s way. As I reach out to her, I realize what a
terrible mistake I’ve made. Her animal instincts are far keener
than mine and she senses my approach without knowing it’s me. She
spins quickly around, and a sharp sensation pierces my hand. As
Amara’s black eyes meet mine, we both know what’s just happened.
Everything stops, not just figuratively, but even the fighting
comes to an abrupt halt for a moment. I can see in her eyes the
horror over her mistake. Then the shock of it all passes and the
fight resumes. Almost instantly I burn up with fever. I’m unable to
focus on anything, and in my disoriented state, I stumble back.
This time the crowd falls away from me as though I’m a leper. My
vision blurs. One of the last things I see as I collapse to my
knees is a haze of strawberry blonde hair and ivory skin moving
toward me. I don’t need to know about the intricacies of werewolf
history or biochemistry to know what’s happening to me. I’ve been
bitten.

12.
Sleep

E
very blood cell within me constricts like I’m being crushed
from inside. As I crash in and out of consciousness, nothing seems
real. A fever envelops my body in a heavy sweat. I must be losing
my grip on reality, because I’m certain there’s an animal growing
beneath my skin. As much as I scratch, I can’t get it out. A bright
light switches on above me then a face hovers, blurred and
disembodied. Is this real? Another face looms above me. They both
talk but their voices are distant and garbled. What if these are my
captors? I try to fight, lashing out helplessly at the unknown,
unable to make contact with anything but air. But then there’s
blood on my hands. The exertion causes my heart to seize. I howl in
agony from both the pain and the horror of not knowing whose blood
I’ve spilled. Everything goes dark.

When I wake again, my senses are dulled and my
eyelids are heavy. It takes a good deal of effort to simply look
around at my surroundings. As I do, I take in a modern loft-style
apartment or maybe an open-concept office. The floors are of a
sleek black marble. A wall of windows spans one side of the room
and overlooks La Défense business district outside the western city
limits. My view beyond that is restricted by a large three-panel
screen, decorated with Celtic knotwork. Across the room Boadicea
sits in a plush leather chair with a chrome laptop propped on a
clear plastic desk in front of her. I can’t get any words out. It’s
like my mouth is stuffed full of cotton balls or worse ― fur. I gag
at the thought. Truth is, I don’t even know what I want to say to
her. Is it too obvious to ask what I’ve become?

My bitten arm aches. Looking down at my injured
hand, I see that not only is it wrapped in gauze, but so is my
entire forearm. What happened? When I reach to touch the bandage,
my movement is impeded. I’m strapped down to bars of a hospital
bed. Instinctively, I struggle against the bindings and immediately
my heart pumps into overdrive. Painful sensations course through my
body, cramping my muscles. When she comes to the bedside, I look up
at her in agony. Now the words are completely gone from my mind.
Like I’ve lost language altogether.

“It may sound counter-intuitive, but it’s in your
best interest not to fight it,” she tells me gently. “The pain will
pass soon.”

Great. All the sooner to start my new life as a
werewolf. As if to provide me with a measure of comfort, she
touches my forehead, but I withdraw quickly. Panic sears through me
from the contact, as though I’ve never felt a human hand on me.
Like an unwanted pet dog who’s gone wild after being abandoned for
years. I close my eyes, take deep breaths and slip into an easy
sleep. The next time I wake up, she’s at my side, checking on the
IV drip attached to my arm. Wearing a white blouse and green pencil
skirt, she looks all business. Although she doesn’t cast a glance
in my direction, somehow I sense she knows I’m awake and staring at
her. My hunch is confirmed when she asks, without looking, “How are
you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” My voice is weak
from lack of use. “Where am I?”

“At Boguet Biotechnology.”

The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “Why?”

“After you were bitten, I brought you here to
recover.”

It sounds so clinical, like making werewolves is a
science.

“So, am I ... one of your kind now?”

Finally, she looks right at me. Her voice is kind
when she speaks, like a doctor delivering an ill-fated diagnosis.
“No, my lamb, of course not. I tried explaining to you before, but
you were running a fever ― hallucinating ― it’s why we had to
restrict your movement.”

Looking down at my arms, I see that I’m free of the
restraints. I rub my wrists then peel back the gauze from my arm,
horrified to see thin claw marks running across my forearm. The
memory of the other night is a blur, but I distinctly don’t recall
being scratched.

“What happened?”

“As I said, you were hallucinating. You thought
there was a wolf under your skin.”

“I
did this?” I can’t hide the surprise in my
voice.