Shattered Circle (6 page)

Fuck.

“Everyone is watching you, John.”

He said nothing, but he hung his head and tried to figure out the perfect wording for the text he’d send Seph to cancel.

Aurelia turned and retreated into the stairwell.

Red will understand. I know she will.

•  •  •

Aurelia had seen to it that a dry-cleaned suit, tie, and dress shoes had been brought to the apartment while Johnny showered. All were black except for the gray shirt. Seeing the spiffy duds, he’d rolled his eyes but put them on, grumbling. Now his still-wet hair was dripping slightly on the tailored jacket shoulders as he stood in the parking garage with Gregor on one side and his self-appointed fashion director on the other.

Todd had parked and was approaching them when a metallic-gray Cadillac Escalade limousine pulled in and rolled right up to them. When the driver hopped out and opened the door, the
diviza
slid out.

He was an older man, his hair a rendition of Einstein’s, and his equally frizzy beard at least twelve inches long.
His face was tanned dark, with deep lines across his forehead. Any wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were hidden by his dark sunglasses.

He cocked his head as he surveyed them. He was so scrawny that, with all the bristling hair about his head, his skull seemed oversized for his body. Johnny felt like he was being sized up by a starving elderly caveman dressed for a hip cocktail party.

The old man’s gaze settled on him.

“
Diviza,
I’m John Newman,” he said. “This is Todd McCloud. He will soon replace me as
dirija
of this pack. This is Aurelia Romochka, my assistant, and Gregor Radulescu, Omori captain.”

The older man pulled his sunglasses down an inch, revealing an azure-blue eye on the left, while the pupil of the right eye was bright, reflective silver. It had a startling effect, but then, in a crisp Cajun accent, the
diviza
said, “Delighted to meet you all. I am Jacques Lippencot Plympton and we are late. If you would join me . . . ” He disappeared into the limo.

Once settled inside the luxurious interior, Johnny asked, “Where is this meeting?” It was early evening on a Sunday, after all. Government offices were closed.

Jacques’s cheeks bulged round in a smirk. “Not far. Not far at all.” The last came out more like
ah-tall
. He then spent the entire five-minute ride facing Johnny with that crooked smile stuck in place.

This must be what it feels like to be on display at a freak show.

A
fter school, Beverley rode the bus to her normal stop. When she climbed into Celia’s CX-7, as usual, Celia asked about her day. Beverley told her that her best friend, Lily, was absent because she’d gotten to fly on an airplane to Florida, about the experiment they did for science, and about the picture of a unicorn that Bobby drew for her. She still had a crush on Bobby even after he pushed the merry-go-round so fast she fell off and broke her arm.

But Beverley didn’t tell Celia everything.

She didn’t tell Celia that she had barely been able to pay attention all day because she couldn’t wait to get back to the farmhouse.

She held on to the car’s door handle the entire distance of the driveway, her feet dancing on the floor mat, ready to jump out before the car even stopped.

“You’re sure in a hurry to see Errol today,” Celia remarked as she put the car in park.

Beverley usually ran from the car all the way to the barns, but today she wanted to go inside the house. “Can I have some milk first?” she asked as she scurried from the car.

“Of course.” Celia cut the engine. “Check the date on the carton, though. Seph’s been gone.”

“I’ll have a juice, then.” Beverley knew Celia would be doing paperwork for her house-selling job. It was
what she always did after school to give Beverley time to go see the unicorn. So she rushed into the kitchen and selected a juice box from the refrigerator, then, as Celia situated herself at the table and began pulling folders from her briefcase, Beverley returned to the front door. She opened it, closed it, slipped off her shoes, and carried them as she tiptoed up the steps, being careful to avoid the ones that she knew squeaked.

In Seph’s bedroom, she stood before the dresser and studied the black obelisk. She wondered why her mom had told her to lift it off its base, but she did as she had been instructed. The instant her fingers touched it, an electric jolt made her fingers squeeze around it. She gasped in pain, but the ache had already faded. She sat the obelisk on its side next to the base piece.

Crossing the room, she dropped gently to her knees and slid the slate out from under the bed where she’d left it this morning. She smiled mischievously as she gathered the slate into her arms, placed her shoes on top, and snuck back down the steps. She peeked down the hall and noted that Celia was sitting with her back toward the barns.

Being as quiet as possible, she opened the door again, slipped out, and shut it silently behind her. On the front porch she paused long enough to put on her shoes, then she walked the long way around the house so Celia couldn’t see her through the window. She jogged across the backyard to the cornfield and toward the barns . . . then she slipped into the rows of stalks.

Following the other directions that had been given to her that morning, she walked until she arrived at the trees. She pushed through the bare branches and into
the leaf-strewn open center of the grove. She turned in a complete circle, deciding which of the inner trees was the best.

One in particular caught her eye. It was a thick tree, tall and strong-looking. Its roots were bumpy, but spread out wide and high almost like the arms of a chair. Beverley sat, leaning against this tree, her legs stretched before her, slightly bent. She propped the slate on her angled lap.

With her hands poised over the letters, she whispered, “Are you still there, Mommy?” and touched the surface.

J
ohnny was surprised when the limousine slowed and stopped at a small parking area at the corner of Detroit Avenue and West 25th Street. Jacques exited the vehicle and walked directly toward the big brown door beside the old plaque declaring it the subway entrance. They were going to the underside of the Detroit-Superior Bridge.

Of course they were meeting on a
bridge
. They were dealing with ODOT. People from the Department of Transportation would know this structure inside and out. The lower level was only opened on special occasions, and apparently a negotiation with wærewolves qualified as special.

The dry scent of cold concrete mingled with the dank stench of the Cuyahoga River, which snaked under them.
This bridge connects the West Side with the East Side, and today the stink of both are collecting here.

Inside, the transportation department reps had taken a position with their backs to the route that the subway cars once traveled. Anything could be hidden in the depths of that darkness behind them.

Breathing deep to sort through all the scents as nonchalantly as possible, Johnny detected more humans than were visible, and a lot of gunpowder and gun oil. Johnny glanced around. This would have to be a position ODOT felt they could defend, one that gave them an advantage. Question was, what advantage did it give them and
how could the wæres overcome it if necessary? He shot a glance at Gregor, who nodded.

“
Diviza
Plympton . . . ” Gregor whispered.

“I smell them, all right, boy,” he whispered back.

“Mediation usually doesn’t include bullying tactics like coming in with an arsenal,” Aurelia said softly.

Plympton chittered a laugh. “We a-walked in with more strength and power in our veins than they will ever know. They have merely made an attempt to even the odds, Mizz Romochka.”

That made Johnny think back to being a new wære, when he first joined this pack. He’d been taught many things, including how to respond when mundane humans became aggressive.

“The general population thinks guns will protect them from us. When they make a show of force, it is because they fear us and are trying to keep us at bay. We should be flattered that they go to such effort,”
he recalled the former pack leader Ignatius telling him. A father figure to Johnny, Ig had bestowed him with wisdom he hadn’t had much use for until recently.
“It makes them feel powerful to have that steel in their hands. But you, John, you have something far more potent inside of you.”

Ahead, there were five men, front and center. They stood like mob bosses in a police lineup: shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped before them, wearing nice black suits. Scattered around in flanking positions were over a dozen men in fatigues, grouped in threes. Posed for intimidation, these men wore their guns unhidden and their hands were poised, ready to draw.

“These are not the same guys that have been at the other meetings,” Todd said quietly.

Something had changed drastically for ODOT to be taking it this far. They didn’t intend to lose this negotiation.

The
diviza
continued. “Let’s walk, people. Walk like we own the place. Don’t hold back. Let their human senses feel what we are, what we can do. Domn Lup, now would be a good time to let some of your sovereignty shine through.” He started forward.

The wærewolves crossed the distance, letting that “other” about them radiate forth like the cool breeze before a bad storm.

Being outnumbered four to one against a mostly hidden, well-armed enemy, Johnny’s initial reaction was to get angry and offended, but he knew that was surely part of what they wanted. He let that emotion flow into his aura and dared to reach inward and stroke his beast, just one brief, light touch. . . .

The instant he did, it lurched within him like a vicious junkyard dog leaping to the end of its chain.

He felt a wave of heat explode out from him. It drew low growls from those walking with him, and as it hit the humans, they were noticeably affected, responding with either a quick step backward or a head-to-toe shiver.

Johnny focused on maintaining his stride, not faltering in step, and on controlling the wolf inside him.

Off to his left was another man, but this tan-suited fellow was not trying for intimidation. Stout, with thin gray hair, he would not have been able to be convincing as a tough guy anyway. He had already mopped his sweaty forehead a dozen times with a handkerchief, shifted his weight frequently, and twice had switched the briefcase from one hand to the other. “What in Hell was that?” he muttered softly.

While the four male wærewolves formed a line of their own with Johnny and the
diviza
in the middle, Aurelia stepped to the forefront. “Hello, gentlemen. I’m Aurelia, assistant to the Domn Lup. May I introduce the
diviza,
Mr. Plympton.” She gestured toward the bearded man, who nodded once. “And you are?” she asked sweetly.

“Our names aren’t important,” the man in the center said. He wore a bright blue tie.

Johnny took that as a bad sign. They might be legitimate representatives of ODOT, or they might be, literally, hired guns.

“Very well. Are you the mediator?” she asked the nervous man with the briefcase.

“I am.” He inched forward.

She closed the distance to him and shook his hand. “Aurelia.”

“Baker,” he said, soaking in her beauty and kindness. “Scott Baker.”

“Nice to meet you, Scott,” she said warmly. “Usually this kind of thing takes place in an office, around a table. Since we have neither of those here, how do
you
want to proceed?”

Johnny knew she was charming the man to put him at ease and gain some of his favor for their side. But Scott was obviously not a fool. Caught between wærewolves and armed “government officials” in a last-minute meeting at a secret locale, he recognized the danger he was in. Johnny wondered if ODOT had bribed him.

“As I understand it,” Scott said, pointing at ODOT’s line of suits, “ODOT wants the Cleveland Cold Storage building and has made an offer which has been declined. You’re here to make a new offer.”

“Correct,” Blue Tie said.

“And you,” Scott gestured at Johnny, “simply want to keep the building.”

“The location in question,” Mr. Plympton said in his lilting Cajun accent, “is a mostly windowless structure that is perfect for the specific needs of our people.” His hands flitted this way and that as he spoke. “We’ve modified the interior extensively over the years and to move the den to any other building would require starting over on those modifications. The purchase price ODOT has previously offered does not come close to allowing us to purchase a new structure in the area and then modify it similarly in order to ensure the safety of our people . . . and yours.”

“There are other areas,” Blue Tie said softly.

Aha. They want us out of their downtown
.

A few tense seconds passed, then Scott asked Plympton, “You are open to considering the new offer they have prepared, though, right?”

“Of course we will consider the new offer.”

Scott faced the ODOT reps. “You have the paperwork?”

The man to Blue Tie’s right opened his jacket. From an inside pocket he removed a mass of papers stapled together and folded once lengthwise. He handed it to Scott, who in turn handed it to Plympton.

Plympton perused the document, not bothering to remove his sunglasses. “There’s nothing new in this offer. In fact, these pages are identical to the last offer.”

“That’s correct,” Blue Tie said.

Johnny let his internal struggle for dominance deepen his voice as he asked, “If you’re not offering anything new, why are we here?”

“Oh, we’re offering something new.” Blue Tie nodded
to the man on his left and he pulled out more papers from the opposite side of his jacket. “It’s something that is . . . out of the public eye, for now.”

When these papers were handed to him, Plympton quickly scanned through the pages.

Johnny tried to see what was written on them, but the smugness in Blue Tie’s voice made him look up.