The Bureau (A Cage for Men and Wolves Book 1) (4 page)

The leaves itched and caught the loose threads of her damp sweater, but besides shivering, she didn’t move. It had taken her most of the night to get to the row of narrow, Victorian townhouses. She’d not seen a single agent on her way across town, but sometimes she would hear phantom boot tread behind her and dip down another street to wait out her nerves. Now that she was stationary, moving seemed like tempting fate, so she breathed low, shallow breaths and kept her eyes on the worn brick facades and leaded windows across the street. In the center of that line of houses was an elaborate stained glass door, a pretty little disguise that hid the criminal she’d chosen as her prisoner and bargaining chip.

It had been harder finding Montgomery’s address than it had been choosing him. Fisher wasn’t a man who was
feared
by most werewolves, but he wasn’t someone you looked for unless you were planning trouble. Lucky for Clover, that was exactly what she was planning.
Luckier
for her, the man had been close with her parents.

She’d spent several days loitering near the subway—one of his regular spots—hoping to run into him. The quickness with which he’d agreed to help her had been shocking, as had his decision to receive payment
after
she’d procured her prisoner. She’d not questioned him, though, and had eagerly met him the next day to retrieve the address. She had gotten the distinct impression that he’d agreed just to see if she would really follow through.

When a light came on in a nearby window, Clover pushed Fisher from her mind, turning her focus toward the house in front of her with its pretty little door. The horizon to her left was growing grey with morning, and to her right she could feel the moon slowly tucking itself away. She could feel the wicked orb drawing tides with her blood, and she couldn’t wait for it to wane further from its swollen phase. Until that waning was noticeable, it continued to goad the wolf, making it wriggle behind her ribs. For a whole week surrounding the full moon their freight car maze echoed with crying. Babies and the littlest kids—those who hadn't learned to tolerate the sensation—were the worst culprits. A few of the adults cried too, though. Their reputations never really recovered once they were caught.  

She tucked her arms beneath herself, both to ease the shifting under her bones and to keep herself warm. The nausea would pass eventually, just like her chances to find her family if she let herself get distracted. 

Soon, every house on the street was lit up. She watched the windows of her mark’s home, trying to imagine the little military doll preparing for work—eating breakfast, reading a newspaper, doing all those things people were supposed to do when they got ready for work. But all she could conjure were images of him sleeping in his starched uniform, mimicking the body at a wake. The hatred she'd been cultivating since she'd first seen his photo made the idea of him in a casket appealing. Then, real daylight began peeking through the slots that separated the buildings, and she watched the lights flick off one after the other.

Pedestrians had already begun their slow trickle onto the sidewalk when a shiver coursed through her like a charge on a wire, curling down her spine. The colored door swung open and she saw Charles Elliot Montgomery IV for the first time outside of newsprint.

His height was the first thing to strike her. He was tall—not at all the way she’d imagined him by his photo. The weak expression he’d worn on paper had suggested he’d be more diminutive, more helpless. The boy she was looking at now was built and dressed more like a man. Not a 19-year-old boy.

Had she gotten the wrong address after all?

Once he turned toward the street, after locking his door, Clover knew she was in the right place. She recognized his pale hair, and while he didn’t wear his glasses, she knew it was him. The insipid, spoiled expression she’d seen in the paper was different in person though. He didn’t look wicked. He didn’t look like a lifeless doll. She’d
wanted
him to be a villain. Instead, he smiled at his neighbor; he paused and fell in stride with the elderly woman. Even at a distance, his expression was soft; his eyes looked kind.

She hated him.

It was late morning before the pedestrian traffic dwindled enough for Clover to leave her hollow, and the sunny weather and the sounds of birds made sneaking into the back alley feel less like a crime.  As she located a fist-sized rock near the garbage bins behind Montgomery's unit, she recalled her mother’s repeated warnings to not be so reckless—that was her father’s job. Once she found her, Clover would just not tell her mom about this part.

After breaking a small pane of glass in the back door, Clover reached through the jagged opening and let herself into a narrow mud room. The house was silent.

See? This isn’t so hard.

Once she was inside, and the door was shut, the still air fell around her like suffocating drapes. Ignoring the opulence of the kitchen, she made a beeline to the front door, needing to be certain Rainer wasn’t on the sidewalk out front. Through a clear panel of glass she could see her hedge, which looked more inviting now that she was inside. The sidewalk was empty, though, and the birds that had comforted her only moments before were silent.

Reminding herself that someone could still be upstairs she padded her way to the second floor, holding her breath until she'd cleared the remaining rooms. The house was empty. It was empty and it was beautiful and expensive and ferociously oppressive. Compared to the freight cars that had been stacked and strung together to form the home she shared with her pack, this was a palace, and she had never felt so lost before.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time—sneaking into Montgomery’s house first thing in the morning. The part she’d not planned for was the dead time. Still pumped from the initial break-in, for the first few hours Clover funneled her energy into something that vaguely resembled planning. When would Montgomery be home? What was his routine? Would he go upstairs first, or stay downstairs? What if he saw the broken window in the back door before she could get to him? What if he brought somebody home with him?

These were all questions she had wanted to answer before following through,

Too late to worry now.

Despite her nerves, after an hour or two of fruitless planning, boredom seeped in and she decided to find her perfect hiding place later, once she’d had time to think her options over. There was no sense in worrying herself to death, anyway. She had to keep loose, ready for the unexpected. And keeping loose in the kitchen seemed like a good place to start.

Now that she wasn’t just passing through it, she realized how beautiful the room was, with its dark wooden cabinets and granite counter tops. It was the pantry that interested her most, though. Why did one person need so much food? The cupboards that were packed to bursting could have fed her aunt and cousin for months.

Between eating spells she tried out every piece of furniture in the house. On the first floor, across the hall from the opulent staircase was a carved arch that led into a dark sitting room. There were no windows, but a monstrous fireplace dominated one wall. A small couch and two straight-backed chairs were arranged around it. She sat on each one in turn, bouncing and rubbing her fingers into the soft fabric that covered them.

Upstairs was another windowless room—monopolized by a heavy, lion-clawed desk. In the bedroom she found an extravagant bedframe with bedding pulled so impeccably around the mattress that it looked like a military cot, despite the ornate posts at each corner. Having seen how Montgomery kept his uniform, she wasn't surprised.

By midday she'd decided that Montgomery was exceptionally boring. Despite all her snooping, it was hard to find anything that seemed personal, other than his clothes and the books that lined the shelves in the office. There were a few photos hanging in the hallways and in the downstairs sitting room, but it was hard to tell if they were family members or just clippings from a history book.

She had been in an upscale home like Montgomery’s only once before. Her mother had taken a freelance job doing laundry for a widower who had grown nearly blind in his old age. She never knew for sure if the man really couldn't tell they were werewolves or if he was playing ignorant, but he had been kind to both of them. Clover still remembered the taste of the small candies the man would give her as they left. They were each decoratively wrapped, and for a long time she saved the little foil squares. Eventually, his neighbors grew suspicious and they quit going. She'd hoped to find a carved box in Montgomery's house, like the one the widower kept his candies in, but her target seemed to lack a sweet tooth.

It was late—a quarter past seven according to the clock behind the desk—and Clover’s body buzzed like it carried a charge. Her hands quivered as she paced the perimeter of the dark office, the hiding place she’d chosen for her ambush. He would have to go by the door she’d left cracked open sooner or later, and when he did, she would be ready for him.

Downstairs, the front door clicked open and the sound of it latching again rang like a hammer in her endorphin-drunk head. She heard the rustling of his coat—probably hanging it on the rack near the door—then she heard his feet on the stairs.

He was going to his room first? She’d hoped that would be the case, but now that he was so close, white noise clouded her head. What if this didn’t work? All of her plans, all of her choreography, disappeared, and in that moment a shadow passed by the door. She’d missed him.

She caught her breath. That was fine; she would catch him on the way back.

Trying to keep her breathing from drowning out the noises coming from the bedroom, she poised herself by the door, listening. She heard muffled sounds in the bathroom, then rustling in his closet. Drawers. Bathroom sink again. Then his softened footsteps were in the hallway and she accepted that she had no idea what she was doing.

Without any more time to plan, she let that still-squirming monster inside her take the wheel. As Montgomery’s figure passed by the study for a second time, she lunged through the door with a ferocity that would make any beast proud. Registering only that his sleeveless undershirt left his shoulders vulnerable, she leapt onto his back, locking her legs around his waist, and sunk her teeth into the meaty flesh below the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

Hot blood coated the inside of Clover’s mouth and she wished she could see his face. She’d heard only the beginning of a gasp before his shouting started. Staggering into the alcove at the top of the stairs he grabbed blindly for her, catching a fistful of her hair. She tightened her jaws around his spongy flesh, and her arm around his throat, refusing to let him go until she felt tearing at her scalp. A scream slung blood from her lips and her legs squeezed around his waist. She leaned back with the pull in her hair, her bodyweight shifting just before they teetered together over the side of the stairs.

The sharp angles of the steps—and the elbows flailing beside her—left bruises wherever they hit, but when her head struck a ledge half way down, she thought someone had brought a chisel to the back of her skull. She slid to a halt at the bottom of the staircase, unable to move. Beside her, Montgomery was shaking off the fall as the striped wallpaper in the alcove wobbled and vomit surged at the back of her throat.

She struggled to lift her head, trying to swallow her retching, and realized her opponent was already on his hands and knees. She groped her pocket for her new knife, her other hand trying to wipe the bad-tasting blood from her lips, smearing it to her cheek. She could just make out the cold metal of the folded weapon when hands clamped around her throat. She heard him shouting, but his words were as blurry as his face, and eventually it didn't matter what he was saying.

"I'm a werewolf," she slurred, swallowed, then tried again in a stronger voice. "I'm a werewolf!"

"What?" Montgomery tightened his grip around her neck, even as the fear in his voice finally became clear in Clover’s disordered head.

"I bit you," Clover felt the blood lubricate her mouth as she grinned, her prey's face still fading in and out of focus. “You're infected."

- 06 -

Even with his face distorted, Clover could see the panic cross his expression. She saw his mouth sag, his eyes widen, then everything pinched back into a look of disgust.

"You're lying!" The strength of his voice shook her, because it was loud, but also because it was deeper than she’d imagined.

He leaned forward, applying pressure to her neck, but his panic seemed be doing its job; he was too upset to notice her fumbling for the weapon in her pocket. Thanks to a wonderful muscle memory, Clover flipped her knife open in one motion, despite her dizziness, and before Montgomery could react, her free hand hooked him behind his neck as the tip of her blade pressed into the hollow of his throat. A bead of blood gathered at the tip, and he stilled, probably realizing she could have killed him in that moment.

"Like hell I'm lying." Clover hoped the blood she tasted made her bared teeth seem more menacing.

Montgomery released her neck, moving his hands to the floor on either side of her, steadying himself and by extension her knife, but he never looked away from her. Even with the throbbing in her head, she recognized the intensity in his eyes. She had him, but only tentatively. Because she knew that, she also knew she couldn’t let him go, and with her head pounding and spinning the way it was, she accepted that she had only one choice. Quickly, before he could pull away, she moved the crook of her elbow to the back of Montgomery’s neck, pressing the knife into him until he winced.