City Under the Moon (31 page)

“I slept on the plane.”

The boy made a motion to his throat as if to throw up. “
She is not liking the plane. She might toss high.”

“Will you come with us to New York?”
Ilecko asked.

Lon was surprised by the question, and again fearful. Not of the thought, but of an answer.
“She is not thinking so. She is not part of the military.”

Ilecko nodded. It was as expected.

The boy thought longer, perhaps from guilt.
“There is many chickens in New York. Will she be safe?”

“No.”

He nodded, first at Ilecko and then at the floor.

“In my home,”
Ilecko said,
“You asked if my wife was a werewolf.”

“Yes. She is sorry.”

“So you know they are not called ‘chickens.’”

The boy’s cheeks flushed and his eyes watered. His head rolled loosely, causing Ilecko to wonder if he was going to faint. Finally, he let loose a soft, defeated gasp.

“I’m sorry,”
he muttered.
“I hoped if we appeared helpless, you would…I’m so sorry.”

His Romanian was sharp after all.

“You are a very smart boy,”
Ilecko said.
“Don’t let them make you feel otherwise.”

But the boy couldn’t hear the compliment or the advice—he was too soft, raging with self-condemnation.
“I am sorry, though,”
he said, fumbling with his hands, and then he switched to English. “I shouldn’t have asked about your wife. I’m—I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t mean to bring up bad… whatever.“

“She would have liked you very much. You would have made her laugh.”

“Thank you for saying that,” he muttered.

Ilecko smiled. The stretch of the muscles felt unfamiliar. And then he surprised himself by telling the boy,
“My wife was not the werewolf. I was.”

The boy looked up, but remained quiet.

“I awoke one morning with her blood on my hands. And my pursuit of Lord Valenkov began.”

And then his life had continued, he said; despite lack of purpose, like a record skipping after the music died. He’d fought so hard to purge the memories, but something inside him wanted to tell this boy what he had never told anyone before.

He had awakened naked in the forest, in the grey, damp haze of a spring morning. Sticky blood covered his hands. Dead weeds were pasted to his bare chest. His skin was hard and numb.

The mountains pointed his way home. The sun crested the hills as he walked, but it brought no warmth. He kept to the woods, away from the road. He came across a dead deer, its insides strewn about the shade of a fir tree. It might have been his own work, but he also sensed a bear nearby, watching from the safety of the trees.

Even the most fearsome animals stayed clear of his scent.

There was the farm, where the warm embrace of his wife would ease his terror. The wolfsbane on their land began to throb in his head, slowing his blood, pulling nausea into his chest. He fought through the daze.

The wolfsbane—this much of it—would incapacitate other werewolves. But not Yannic Ilecko. His heart and body were strong from the hard work and honest thoughts taught by his father and grandfather.

He stumbled across the crops, as carefully as possible, to escape the drown of the wolfsbane. When his senses awoke, he turned southeast toward the house.

Only dead wisps of smoke rose from the chimney. That was the first thing he noticed. Violeta should have been cold without a full fire.

Something was wrong.

The front door was open—how could that be?

She must have gone to town?

Please, she went to town, there must have been a reason to go early—

He ran, a naked and bloodstained madman, crushing potato plants as he stumbled across the soil furrows, wrenching both of his ankles, he reached the house and slipped on the porch, smashed his knee into the support beam, knocking down the awning, not knowing until later that he’d fractured his kneecap, he forced the door open, breaking it against the fallen awning and he stooped to limp inside—

He knew the smell. No. The wolf knew it.

Not just blood.
Her
blood.

He found her facedown in a pool of her spilled life.

The back of her head.
That was the first he’d ever seen of her. And then she’d spun, and her hair had erupted like a blazing torch, and he’d seen those playful freckles, that sweet smile, and those pale eyes. The color of a winter’s dusk. And she smiled, and he wondered how there could be such beauty.

When he didn’t return the favor, thinking she could not be beckoning him, Violeta creased her glimmering orange brows and waved.
Get over here, you.
So expressive were her thin hands. So delicate they would burn after only moments in the sun, yet so strong as they caressed his chest.

That right hand that she’d summoned him with, the hand of God, was now gone. It had been stripped of its flesh and severed at the wrist.

She deserved better than him. He insisted upon it. But he could not stand to see her unhappy; he could not let those brows crease again. He could never deny her, no matter how ludicrous the thought of the
floare
Violeta with the
sălbatic
Ilecko.

And in the end, the flower was crushed by the savage.

No other
vârcolac
could have broken through the wolfsbane.

Could she have known her husband was the monster as he was killing her? Did she call out his name, plead with him to fight against the wolf, even as he ate her flesh?

He buried her beneath their willow trees. He tossed dirt on her lovely face, returning the flower to the earth, until he could see her no more. And then she was gone.

He took no comfort in the hunt for Zaharius Valenkov. No joy when he finally lanced the life from Valenkov’s heart.

It was just another tragedy for a cursed family. Valenkov had suffered the transformation for twenty years. And he too had loved ones—to deny that would be to succumb to blind rage, and Violeta would never permit such a thing. He would never betray her again, if there was any hope that she might forgive him from her perch in Heaven before he plummeted in the other direction.

Perhaps it was Violeta’s silent whisper that made him to come to America. That might explain what he could not. And yet, here he was, in a strange land, to see to more heartbreak for the Valenkov clan.

After his tale was told, the American boy struggled for words.

Now Ilecko found it easier to look at him. He noticed his red hair and—

Yes. That was it.

With his hair and his fair skin, his eyes… he could have been Violeta’s child. Perhaps… perhaps it
was
her whisper, from his lips, that brought him to America.

“I’ll go with you,” Lon said, breaking his long silence, “to New York.”

Ilecko was surprised to realize that that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

Three

Manhattan

January 2

Daybreak

Aircraft swarmed the Manhattan sky like an apocalyptic cloud of locusts.

Nearly nine thousand US helicopters were on active duty, the latest and greatest alongside Vietnam-era Hueys. US Air Force F-22 Raptor and F15E Strike Eagle fighters rocketed above their range, packed with air-to-surface weapons capable of leveling skyscrapers. Air traffic control required circuitous flight patterns, precise lateral, vertical, and longitudinal assignments—and a lot of luck.

The Joint Task Force was comprised of over 170 platoons, deployed primarily by air. Command centers were established on roofs, landing pads, and seaports. Canvass districts overlapped in dangerous areas like Hell’s Kitchen and Chelsea in western midtown, where the conflict at the Lincoln Tunnel still raged. Significant civilian resistance was expected in all zones, particularly the island’s outer rim.

The haunting surveillance image of Demetrius Valenkov was affixed to every soldier’s backpack, pilot’s console, and riot officer’s shield. Up until six p.m., orders were to capture the HPT (high-priority target) for questioning. After six, shoot to kill upon acquisition.

One hundred thousand leaflets had been dropped over the city during the night. They bore the same image of Valenkov, and the following text:

DEMETRIUS VALENKOV

WANTED ALIVE

FOR QUESTIONING IN REGARD TO

THE WEREWOLF DISEASE

This man should be considered HIGHLY DANGEROUS.

If you see him, alert nearby authorities or

assist your fellow citizens in APPREHENDING or

TRAPPING him. We will overcome this together.

Believe and trust in your fellow Americans.

From six a.m., a cycling broadcast emanated from the skies:
A federal state of emergency has been declared. Clear the streets immediately. Military forces cannot guarantee your safety.

The moon set at 8:03 a.m. The JTF coordinated to storm the city after a safety window for the reverse transformation.

At 9 o’clock precisely, thousands of paratroopers and rappelling soldiers dropped from the sky. UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters put soldiers down on open intersections. The barricades were moved for armored personnel vehicles. Troops moved against civilian resistance with rapid dominance, establishing swift ground control so the dragnet could begin.

Four

Joint Base Andrews

January 2

7:30 a.m.

Brianna Tildascow was feeling her exhaustion. She’d managed some tormented rest on the return flight from Transylvania, but four hours of sleep in three days wasn’t enough. Her fumes were running on fumes.

The kid had pleaded for them to take him into Manhattan. He’d been dug in for a battle, and he was stupefied when she consented without one.

The way she saw it, he’d proved his worth in Transylvania. For some strange reason, he had a place in Ilecko’s heart (she’d considered that it might be in another body part, but that didn’t seem to be the case). His knowledge was undeniably valuable, and, most importantly, he’d obeyed her orders. She made it clear that this was a do or die mission (in all probability, do
and
die), and also that he’d be left behind if he lagged. He didn’t hesitate, so neither did she.

The moon would rise at 7:15 p.m. She wasn’t privy to the specifics of the federal government’s plan, but the resolution would be decisive. Something had gone badly in Atlanta, something that made them believe Ilecko’s warning. They couldn’t allow the full moon to rise on the thousands—maybe tens of thousands—of werewolves.

It had to end tonight. If Demetrius Valenkov did not die, everyone left in Manhattan would, her along with them.

Packing was light and easy. She brought a couple of canteens, power bars, a good knife, and two sidearms: her modified .45 Springfield 1911A1 and a USAF-issued Glock 17 loaded with newly-struck 9mm silver ammunition.

The 1911 was all she ever needed in a gun or a boyfriend: a broad-nosed hand cannon with an intimidating metal mouth that would make a seasoned marine wet his diapers. Perfect weight distribution so it felt like it was holding her hand, minimizing blowback and promoting repeat-fire accuracy. It was a SWAT weapon, not standard issue. But she wasn’t a standard agent.

The Glock was a far less reliable weapon. Bitchy recoil and a
fucking
plastic handle. Even worse, she couldn’t know this particular gun’s history. It looked okay when cleaned and inspected, but it’d stay in her belt until she positively needed silver love.

They also gave her a Colt 9mm submachine gun with silver rounds, but she planned on stowing that bulky rifle on the ‘copter till sundown.

From a practical standpoint, if they came up against actual werewolves, they’d already be out of time.

She kept the black MOLLE utility vest she’d worn to Transylvania and packed her mother’s good looks behind a black baseball cap and polarized sunglasses. They’d be on the move, so the cold wasn’t of much concern.

She packed Lon light as well, and she hid a Glock under the power bars in his backpack—no need to tell him about that. Ilecko wouldn’t take any provisions or gear other than a new Velcro strap for his Anelace’s sheath.

Someone high up was told by someone higher up to give her team whatever they wanted. When she asked Ilecko where they should start searching, his shrugging response didn’t exactly inspire a tidal wave of confidence.

“In the middle,” he said, with his sticky Romanian d’s.

A good ole-fashioned Army-grade SWAG: a scientific wild-ass guess.

Armed with such expert insight, she requested just a couple of high-speed, low-drag troops and constant, redundant air support. Less show, more go.

At 0730 (she was falling back on her armyspeak as she spent more time around these grunts), a wingnut led her, Lon, and Ilecko across the Andrews campus to the helipad, which was the eye in a tornado of noise.

A Black Hawk helicopter awaited them, with its twin engines jutting above the bulky passenger cabin like a boxer’s bulging collar. Grunts called it the “Crash Hawk” because of its alarming propensity to crash. Her inner Rambette shrugged as she realized this wasn’t the DAP attack variant or even the 60K special ops mod, and it didn’t have stub wings attached for weapon stores. A bee without its stinger, purely a transport vehicle.

Mantle and Jaguar were at the helm, a sight she found surprisingly welcome.

“Hooah!” Mantle yelled as Tildascow climbed into the cabin.

They looked like infants beneath their enormous flight helmets, which had lenses mounted on either temple, jutting out like the folds of a king cobra. Tildascow had fooled around with a predecessor of those helmets during her time in Nevada; they were called “TopOwls,” and they projected high-resolution images from the aircraft’s flight and weapons systems directly onto the pilots’ visors, allowing them to guide missiles simply by looking at their targets. It seemed beyond futuristic, but this tech was old hat to pilots trained on videogames.