Werewolves of New York: Darik Page 2

  Darik couldn’t help but smirk, “Never.”

  Both parents chuckled, happy for a moment of lightness. Philip opened the car door for Amy. She used the sureness of his strong hand to get in. He closed the door and walked around, his eyes on his son. “Try not to burn the house down.”

  Darik called over with a devilish smile, “Why ya gotta take the fun outta everything?”

  Philip grinned. “’Night son.”

  “’Night Dad.”

  He watched their car leave the long driveway, the red lights growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared.

  Just after midnight, there was a knock on the door. Darik clamored down the steps, calling out, “You guys lose your keys or something, what the hell?” His thirteen-year-old hand unlocked the deadbolt in a flash. He swung the door open without thinking and froze in confusion at the sight of two uniformed police officers gravely staring back at him from the front porch.

  “Darik Greyson?” asked one.

  “Yeah?” he frowned, his pulse quickening as he glanced from one displayed badge to the other.

  “There’s been an accident. Your parents were attending a charity event. There was an attack on the facility. A bomb—”

  “What?!!” Darik threw his hand up to stop the policeman. “Wait, what?”

  It was as if the man had spoken from a parallel universe, one where horrible things happen that you can never undo.

  The sight of tears jumping to the teenage boy’s eyes gave the officer pause. He glanced to the ground. “I’m sorry. Your parents were among twenty-three people who were killed in the attack. They, and the others, were seated nearest the podium where it detonated.”

  Darik stared into the distance. He refused to let the tears fall because that meant he accepted what they were telling him. “They can’t be dead.”

  With gentleness the second officer offered, “Son, it might ease your mind to know that, with this type of explosion, they never knew what hit them.”

  His parent’s faces leapt into his mind. “Stop!”

  The first officer’s lips were a thin, grim line. “Do you have someone to call? Family? We can take you to them, or...”

  When he didn’t answer, the second officer asked, “Son?”

  Son.

  The word slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. An itching feeling lit up the outer layer of his skin from his toes to the top of his head.

  Son.

  “My grandmother’s visiting. She’s upstairs,” he quickly lied, feeling suddenly as if the world was spinning in a circle at an ever-increasing speed. There was no grandmother upstairs. She was back in Scotland, and since she’d never stood up for either of them against her abusive father, his mother barely talked to the woman. His paternal grandparents, heavy smokers since childhood, had both passed from cancer by the time Darik was nine. There was nobody. He had nobody. “Oh God, I’m going to have to tell her…” he trailed off.

  Offering their apologies again, the officers headed to their car. The itchiness of his skin increased as Darik closed the door. He felt a yank at something inside of him like all of his organs were making themselves known. He cracked his neck and locked the deadbolt, a harmonizing clicking sound of metal and bone.

  To his dying day he would believe the police not arguing with him, or asking to meet his invisible grandma, was an act of God. One that saved them from being killed because as the lock turned in the door, Darik felt the change begin. His dermis enflamed. Hot tears released onto his cheeks. He struggled to get to the stairs, grasping onto the railing as his lungs gave way.

  He saw the grand hall his parents had been in, could picture the extravagant décor, the well-dressed people sitting around white tablecloths, the explosion igniting the podium and spreading out. He could see the wine glasses in front of half-empty plates, his parents’ smiling faces as they vanished forever.

  I’m sorry.

  Images of Philip helping Amy into the car. Red taillights fading.

  I’m sorry.

  Darik dropped to the floor as his bones compacted and reshaped, the pain matching that in his soul.

  I’m sorry.

  Auburn-colored fur exploded from every pore. His eyesight sharpened instantly, the foyer crackling into focus.

  I’m sorry.

  He screamed out as his jaw snapped and changed, stretching outward to a muzzle with sharp fangs he could not understand.

  I’m so sorry.

  The refrigerator hummed as loudly as the engine of an eighteen-wheeler speeding past his ears. Rats scurried in the attic upstairs, little nails muffled but yet inexplicably audible. He turned to the mirror lining the south wall and saw a wolf staring back, larger than any he’d seen along the roads in wintertime. Blue eyes much lighter than his blinked back at him and began to glow as tears slipped down the short fur that lined his new face. As he stared at this unfamiliar beast, barely understanding it was him, Darik’s heartbeat became all that he could hear. The pain was unbearable, the sight unbelievable. He crashed through a first floor window and ran.

  For three nights he did not stop running save for when exhaustion forced him. During those brief, impatient stints he’d hobble around, four legs shaky before the pain in his heart drove them onward. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink water. He just ran. Darik, the boy, had no idea where he was going, but his wolf knew. It led him until finally it stopped in a forest in the northern east point of Maine. There it withdrew into his soul and he reformed into his teenage human form, crumpling to the ground to sleep on raw earth.

  From far off, he heard voices. They seemed to be talking about him but they tumbled onto one another, dizziness and lack of nutrition fogging his mind. Naked, starving, weak and shivering, Darik cracked open tired eyes and saw a fifteen-year-old blonde boy kneeling by his side. He was naked, too, but seemed unfazed by that, even unconscious of it. There were others behind him, naked males and females who stared at him like they couldn’t believe their eyes.

  The blonde boy frowned. “I’m Dontae, who are you?”

  The memory of his parents’ death flew back to him. “My family,” he choked, “They’re gone.”

  “They weren’t wolves,” a female whispered. “Look at his blue eyes!”

  “But he’s one of us,” a male quickly countered. “You saw him.”

  “Smell him.”

  The boy named Dontae held up his hand. “We’ve heard of this happening.” To Darik, he asked again, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  He felt the cold earth under his palms as he supported himself, sitting up. “Darik Greyson.”

  Dontae nodded. “How long have you been a wolf?”

  “A wolf?” Darik whispered, staring at the boy in confusion. Then he remembered. The beast, he could sense it now waiting inside of him, inextricably linked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

  Some whispering and a couple chuckles came from the group. Dontae’s blonde eyebrows knit together. “Nathaniel? A little help?”

  A teenager with dark brown, wavy hair, sinewy muscles and bright green eyes stepped forward. “It must have just happened. He looks stunned.”

  “He’s starving,” said a flaxen-haired female, in her twenties. At the sound of her voice Darik glanced over and paused at the sight of her naked breasts, the curve of her hips. Her legs were spaced hip-width apart and her bush, the color of straw, was full. She smiled at his slack-jawed gaze. “Starving, but not dead.”

  He didn’t have the energy to blush. “Who are you people?”

  A female in her late thirties stepped forward, with long dark hair covering one of her dusky nipples as she knelt on one knee. She inspected his blue eyes like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “I’m Luna.” She reached over and slid a finger along his wet cheek, cupping under his chin. Her touch was motherly and welcome. “You don’t know what you are, do you?” He shook his head. “You are special, Darik. That’s what you are.”

  And
with finality, fifteen-year-old Dontae added, “And you have a new family now.”

  Chapter Three

  With wrinkled hands pulling at her IV, Doris snapped, “It feels like it’s racing! I don’t care what that contraption says!”

  Talia Irizarry smiled and poked at the screen with a long, red fingernail. “This is one pricey contraption and if you get scared all you’ve gotta do is look at this pulsing red line to make sure you’re okay. It’ll go gangbusters if you’re not.”

  The eighty-five year old shouted, “Or flatten right out!”

  It had been a long night, but patients like Doris had the opposite effect on Talia as they had on some of the other nurses. They charmed her. Whenever they lost their sense of logic, like right now, she softened. The same couldn’t be said of Janet, but Janet was a bitch. Everyone knew that.

  Tucking in the blankets so that Doris felt as close to swaddled as a grown up could, Talia whispered, “Now get some sleep, Mrs. Williams.”

  Doris grumbled and burrowed deeper into the covers. In the cold florescent lighting she looked extremely fragile. Talia gave the old woman’s foot a squeeze through the covers. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

  “I’ve got my buzzer!”

  “Oh, I know,” Talia smiled. She turned off the light and left the room.

  The corridor was bright, as though it were noon rather than midnight. All the other rooms were dark save one. Janet stepped out and walked to the nurse’s station, her dark hair in a bun, hands loosely gripping a urine sample. Talia headed to the room and flicked off the light, joining Janet a moment later just as she placed the sample into a metal bin destined for the lab.

  “The light, Janet. Turn off the light so they can sleep. Come on.”

  Janet shot her a disdainful look. “Why, when I know you will?” A corner of her mouth turned up.

  “You’re such an asshole,” Talia spat, walking behind the large beige counter. She picked up the half-eaten salad she’d left behind when Doris buzzed her, and plopped down in a chair to finish it.

  “That rabbit food is not going to help,” Janet said with a snide look over her shoulder as she headed away like the coward she was.

  Jonas, Talia’s best friend and co-worker, rolled his eyes from where he sat about five feet down the long nurse’s station. He leaned toward Talia with his right hand still filling out the form on which they were required to write a patient’s nightly progress. “She’s just upset they couldn’t cast a woman as Hannibal Lector.”

  “I heard that, faggot!” Janet called back.

  Neither Talia nor Jonas flinched at the nasty word. It was Janet’s favorite thing to call the Filipino twenty-five year old, mostly because she was evil, but also because after he’d first started at Manhattan General Hospital, she’d made a pass at him. He’d said if she had a cock he would consider it, because he was indeed very, very gay. The idea of being with a woman appalled him the same way being with a man appalls some men.

  And being with Janet?

  Ohmyfuckingnowayinhellaintnevergonnahappen.

  Not a typo.

  “You going out this weekend?” Talia asked.

  He tossed the pen onto the counter and spun around with a flourish. “Does Janet need to get laid?”

  Talia grinned. “Where?”

  “The usual places. Why? You wanna come?”

  Shoving a forkful of Kale and organic cranberries into her mouth, Talia gave a weak shrug. “Meh?”

  “You won’t meet a guy there, I can tell you that. I will meet fifty! But you? Not so much, honey.”

  Chewing the bitter leafy green was perfectly apropos to eating the bitter truth he’d just served up. She waited to swallow before saying, “Yeah, but it’s not like a nurse is going to meet Mr. Spectacular in New York City. The men here are looking for gorgeous models and actresses, of which there are thousands.”

  Jonas cocked his head. “You mean hookers and waitresses?”

  Talia smiled. “God, I love you. But yeah…apparently that’s what they want.” She rested an elbow on the counter and shoveled another hefty bite of salad into her mouth. Mid-chew, she muttered, “Okay. I wanna come. I need to get out of the house and I NEED to dance.”

  Walking paperwork to its proper folder, Jonas waved a dramatic hand. “Fuck yes, girl. I love dancing with you.”

  When Friday night came, Talia’s four-inch heels clicked up the subway’s cement stairs, dirt and grime of the popular city making her avoid the handrail. She’d seen enough illnesses to be very careful of what she touched. Ample hips swayed and she held her clutch purse under her arm so she could tug at the crawling hem of her red dress. “Dammit.” Her shiny dark brown hair bounced in long wavy curls, blocking her view as she arrived on the sidewalk. An unexpected and violent slam into her body took her completely off guard. Her purse was ripped from underneath her elbow. She spun around to see a teenage boy racing off, glancing over his shoulder only once.

  “Hey! Hey, come back!” She tried to run, but the heels made that impossible and hilarious. “Shit!!!” she muttered then yelled, “Someone get that kid! HE’S GOT MY PURSE!!!”

  A half a block up, a blonde man in a perfectly tailored suit appeared like a flash from the entrance of a restaurant. He grabbed the boy, plucked the purse away from skinny hands and pushed him, as though the effort caused him no strain whatsoever. The kid ran off in fear of being arrested, stumbling from the push and darting a quick glance back to see if the man followed him. Talia gaped at her luck.

  “Thank you!”

  The man watched the teenager run for a few moments, and then turned to Talia with the mildest raise of a blonde eyebrow as he walked to her.

  “This yours?” he smiled, handing it to her.

  She nodded, glancing from him to the running boy. “Thank you so much! Cancelling credit cards I can handle, but I thought I’d have to go to the DMV and get a new license. You just saved me from a certain kind of hell. Thank you sooooo much! That was amazing!”

  “No problem.” He raked an appreciative glance down her and added with a voice so deep it seemed unnatural, “Nice dress.”

  With that, he flipped on his heel and headed away. She stared at his backside. The lines of his shoulders, waist and ass in that expensively tailored suit were something else. And he’d just helped her out and expected nothing in return??! She sighed, thinking, Now there goes a real man.

  She planned on telling Jonas the second she saw him, but when she walked into ‘Pieces,’ the place she’d thought was going to be a club, her spirits sunk immediately at the sight of it. This was no club. It was a kitschy dive bar, and she was way overdressed.

  There were a couple of dudes mud-wrestling in their underwear, shitloads of tinsel hanging from the ceiling (and disco balls, for fun not dancing), karaoke table tent cards and a drag queen singing, “I Will Survive,” at the top of her lungs. She was killing it, but still.

  Talia pulled out her phone from her rescued clutch and began to text an apology to Jonas, telling him she couldn’t make it…until she heard him live and in person, coming right at her with his finger wagging. “Talia, you sexy bitch! Don’t you dare bail on me! Look at this dress. TROUBLE!!”

  Bald and built David rolled up behind Jonas with extremely tall and extremely black Andre. They both echoed Jonas’s appreciation, though David did it with just a strong, affirmative nod.

  Talia grinned at them and rolled her eyes. “Okay. I need a drink.”

  As they all headed for the bar, Andre shouted the lyrics of the LMFAO song, “Shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots!”

  Talia awoke the next morning on the tiny living room floor of Jonas’s one bedroom apartment in Midtown with a blanket over her body, her shoes splayed out to her right, and a bucket on the left. She peeked inside and found it—thankfully—empty. “Remind me never to do that again.”

  From the bedroom came Jonas’s pained and groggy voice. “Sleeping beauty?”

  “Pretty sure I loo
k more like the evil queen.”

  “Get me some water!”

  “If I could get up.”

  “Slut.” Pause. “Did you have fun?”

  “I danced my ass off. So…yeah. But as of this headache, I officially hate Andre.”

  Chuckling came from the bedroom.

  Talia closed her eyes, letting blessed sleep take her away for at least a couple more healing hours.

  Chapter Four

  Late again, the following Monday morning Darik leapt from the taxi and headed for the offices of the architecture firm he and his packmates owned. He smiled as he admired the sign above their gorgeous, two-story, Downtown Manhattan building.

  D.D.E.N Inc.

  Dontae. Darik. Eli. Nathaniel.

  It was just a funny coincidence to them that it kinda spelled out ‘den.’

  The long silver door handle glinted despite the overcast sky. Darik wiped his hand on his pants before touching it, out of respect. Inside he passed the eternally unoccupied receptionist desk—less people, less curiosity—and unlocked double doors leading to a sparkling white hallway with five closed doors, one for each wolf’s private office, plus one for the stairs located at the far end. Bypassing his office, first door on the right, he headed to the second door on the left. From within came the deep voices of his packmates and partners as audible as if no walls existed between them. A werewolf’s hearing is beyond exceptional and he did not need to say, “I’m here,” but he said it anyway.

  “No shit,” Eli smirked as Darik strode in.

  From where he leaned against the wall Nathaniel smiled. Next to him on the wooden wall hung a five-feet-tall, black and white framed photograph of a building they designed. Another one like it adorned the wall opposite with a different skyscraper they’d created. Nathaniel wore a black suit, which made his emerald green eyes all the more striking. Not that Darik noticed or cared.

  And since this was his office, like the king he thought himself to be, Dontae sat back in an immense, leather chair behind his enormous black desk, with violet curtains pulled back to expose a not-so-attractive view of another building (New York first floor views often suck), although it did allow diffused light to enter the room and give his body a halo effect. Probably on purpose. His blonde hair was freshly trimmed and his tailored suit dark blue. Hazel eyes landed on Darik as though he were in the middle of a thought. “Good. You’re here.”