The Bureau (A Cage for Men and Wolves Book 1) (6 page)

It was an empty soda can the wind was blowing along the curb. No one was following her.

Inside the subway, she tried to recover from her scare on the street. She was embarrassed, and now that her footsteps echoed off the walls of the empty stairwell, she thought a crowd might be comforting for a change. The long, straight stairway that was often packed wall-to-wall with commuters was eerie now that it was empty.

After sliding over the turnstile, afraid of her landing feet making too much noise, she made her way onto the main platform and realized that Fisher's choice made more sense than she’d given him credit for. On this lower level there were a few commuters, but after an uninterested glance they paid little attention to her, and she understood why.

Homeless men and women lined the walls on either side of the platform, no doubt using the underground space to fend off the cold wind that still blew outside. The established lean-tos and tents gave the impression that this was a well-known refuge. That also meant the Bureau likely made rounds in the area, testing the squatters to be sure they were human.

Ignored, she made her way down the platform, scanning the haggard faces, wondering where she should settle to wait for Fisher. How had she missed them when she was last there? Had the sea of people blocked the tiny refugee camp with so little effort? Several of the more delirious individuals sat alone, but most huddled together, sharing food and body heat. From the center of one group, a woman nursing a dirty-looking baby caught Clover's eye and she realized how like her pack they were. She wondered if they hated werewolves humans in better circumstances did.

"Psst," a white haired man sat hissing at her as she pulled her attention away from the mother and child.

It was Fisher, but it was Fisher with a believable beard glued to his chin and cheeks. She had the inappropriate urge to laugh at him. He certainly looked the part he was playing, and she thought this must be how he'd avoided capture for so many years.

"You look cold," he said, making his voice older than usual, "Wanna come warm yourself with a lonely old man like me?"

Clover stared at him a second, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her, then sat down beside him. "You better be careful," she murmured, "you sound like a sketchy pervert when you say it like that."

"I hate to break it to you, kid, but I
am
a sketchy pervert." Fisher’s voice was less shaky now that their conversation was private. "I'd be lying if I said I'd never taken questionable favors as payment before, and if that scares you, then you're in the wrong business."

Clover was silent. She wasn't sure what to say to this man who suddenly seemed too close to her. She felt her palms begin to sweat where she was holding the stiff strap of the attaché case.

"Don't look so worried," Fisher said with a sigh, propping his forearms on his bent knees. “I'd go to Hell
tomorrow
if I laid an ill-mannered hand on Wes and Laurel's daughter."

"Ew," was the first thing Clover thought to say, then, "Did you bring them?"

"I did," the older man answered, seeming unbothered by Clover's disgust, "but we still need to talk about payment."

It wasn't surprising that Fisher was more worried about his payment than he was about helping the child of his missing friend, if that was even what they had been. She understood that even pack bonds had narrow limits, and that this man had no real obligation to help her. He
was
human, after all. Pulling the case into her lap, she started removing the watches, some of which were still in velvet boxes. She'd counted ten in all by the time she'd emptied her haul into Fisher's lap. One at a time, the watches were surveyed with dirty, wrinkled hands. He seemed to be looking for branding. He also didn't seem very impressed.

"I also have a laptop," Clover interrupted his inspection, "and this bag if it’s worth anything. I'm sure it's real leather."

"Hm," was all her informant said as he took the bag from her, pulling out the lap top and turning it over in his hands. “It works?"

"Probably. It’s the one he took to work with him."

There was a very long pause as Fisher looked over Clover's offer, then with a sigh he started repacking things into the case.

"Alright," he said, "but only because you’re Wes' girl."

Clover smiled for what seemed like the first time in ages. "Thank you.”

"Don't thank me, Clover," Fisher said genuinely. “I'm sending you right into the farmer's shed."

The older members of her pack used phrases like that, always referencing farmers. They said it hailed back to a time when farmers in rural areas actively hunted wolves for preying on their livestock, but Clover had never really understood the analogies.

He motioned to the leather bag. "I guess this means you found your target?"

"Yes." She sat up a little straighter and puffed out her chest a little. "I have him locked in his own bathroom as we speak."

He grunted. "And how do you plan to keep him in line?"

"I bit him, and now that he thinks he's infected I told him that I have an antidote. I said I'd give it to him if he does what I say."

"And he believed that?" Greying eyebrows rose on his wrinkled forehead.

"He did."

Fisher shook his head as he pulled a bag of his own onto his lap. "I'll never stop being amazed by their ignorance."

Clover tried not to be annoyed when he used “their” like he wasn’t a human himself. "Is that it?" She eyed the parcel he removed like there might be jewels inside. 

"Yeah. These are your registration papers," he said, handing her a thick envelope.

It felt strange to have the papers in her hands and she had to fight the urge to rip the envelope open to see her name and photo inside. During her last meeting with Fisher he'd taken her to a small alleyway where he'd cleaned her face and taken a photo with a portable camera. He'd even brought a rolled bit of cloth that he'd used as a backdrop.

"Quiet," Fisher whispered, bringing Clover's attention back to the platform as he pulled his jacket more closely around himself, his elbow pushing the leather bag behind them in the same motion.

That was when Clover noticed the echo of shoes coming from the turnstiles. She was relieved to see the two men at the end of the platform in the blue uniforms of the police force, not the black ones that belonged to the Bureau. Following suit, Clover pulled her knees up to her body, trying to look colder than she was. She was grateful for the filthy reflection she'd seen in Elliot's mirror now. The police officers flashed some lights at each of the huddled groups, but weren't looking very hard.

As they passed, Clover heard them talking about their wives and a new child on the way. They were just making their rounds, barely paying attention to what they were looking at. Everyone was quiet until they heard the sound of the officers trudging up a distant staircase, then a slow murmur started back up.

"There's a new-owner's brochure in the envelope with your registration papers, and the instruction guide being used in the top finishing schools right now. You have to be sure to follow all the directions or they'll spot you immediately." Fisher continued as though two cops hadn't just walked passed their illegal meeting.

"They don't even care about all this, do they? The police. I mean, they don't even
care
that the people down here are starving."

"Why should they?" Fisher asked more passively than the subject might have warranted.

"I don't know," she admitted, trying to figure out what to do with the things in her lap now that she'd given her bag away. "I just thought they'd care a bit more about their own kind."

Clover knew there were poor humans, since she often tried to impersonate them to avoid the Bureau. Maybe it was because the most interaction she had with humans was with the workers in the soup kitchens she would duck into when she wanted a hot meal.
They
seemed concerned with the wellbeing of their poor. She had supposed more of them were the same.

"You're in for a world of unpleasant surprises, kid." Fisher handed her the last package, the heaviest of the set, then he passed her the ratty bag he’d brought with him. "Human or werewolf, we're all monsters."

"Werewolves
aren
't monsters." She’d meant her tone to be one of warning, but the weight of the small wrapped kit in her hands had her stomach churning again.

"Well, sometimes we can surprise even ourselves.” It seemed that Fisher had decided their meeting was over because he was pushing himself to his feet, his knees popping as he went, groaning to himself as he stretched his back. "And you should know, that the deeper you dig into this, the more you may realize that I'm right. You're not going to like where this goes.”

Clover stared him in the eyes, the familiar bubbling of defiance making her feel jittery. She reminded herself that no matter how much he helped, he was still a human.

“Just because you’re a jerk who would help with
this
.” She raised the heavy kit. “But not with getting a uniform, doesn’t mean everyone’s like you.”

“Do I look like your personal stylist? And I got you
that
because I wanted to see if you’d actually go through with it.” He pulled his knew bag onto his shoulder. "Also, you need to learn to haggle. I would have done this job for
three
of these watches."

- 08 -

The walk back to Elliot's townhouse was less tense than the trip to the subway, her mind now too distracted by her anger to worry about Bureau agents. Everyone knew Fisher was a scam-artist, but she hadn't expected him to rip her off so badly. She imagined her parents being disappointed, but she knew she was just projecting. She was disappointed with
herself
. Disappointed that she'd not thought more about the cost of the watches, and that she was too scared of Fisher to chase after him. Holding tight to the new, ratty bag she'd gotten, she tried to focus, instead, on what she had to do by morning.

Things at her new base of operation were just as she'd left them. She made a mental to-do list and figured telling Elliot what she needed from him was a good a place to start. Upstairs, the chair she'd used to barricade the door was still in place, and even with her ear at the door she couldn't hear anything. The fear that he was dead crept up on her again.

Steeling her face, she opened the door, not wanting him to see any nervousness in her expression if he
wasn't
comatose. Having half-expected to walk in on a stiff body, she was relieved to find him sitting on the floor, his back to the tub, his legs folded casually in front of him, but she also found his composure jarring. The cool eyes he turned on her had a spark of hatred that seemed intensified by his tranquility.

"Glad to see you're still alive," Clover said, able to hear the fake bravado in her voice.

"Were you
trying
to kill me?" His voice was rough from disuse.

"Well you wouldn't be much use to me dead." She leaned against the door frame, trying to match his disinterest.

Without a word, they sized each other up. A dark bruise had formed on Elliot's brow where she'd clubbed him with the cell phone, his shirt had two brown stains of dried blood, and she knew his thumbs were probably purple. If he was in pain, he was hiding it, and it was that calm, angelic face that infuriated Clover the most. Even with the hidden anger she saw in his eyes, they still had an edge of kindness to them, and it made the whole process so much harder.

"Are you hungry?" She crossed her arms over her stomach, glancing at the bare counter to cut off the pity she began feeling. 

"Do you care?"

"Look, if you're not interested, I can leave you in here for a few more hours."

Silence settled between them again as an insulted sensation brewed inside her. Sure, she'd broken into his home, bitten him, stabbed him a little, and locked him in his own bathroom, but now she was trying to do something nice. He should be more grateful.

"Come on." Clover took a breath and tried being nice again. "I'll loosen your thumb-ties too."

Elliot considered her, his eyes screaming distrust, but after a moment he fumbled his way to his feet, only a ghost of the pain she knew he felt showing on his face. Hooking her hand in the crook of his elbow, she led him out of his room and down the stairs, neither of them speaking as they went. In the sitting room, she fashioned a set of loose handcuffs from more zip-ties she'd stashed in her bag. After his new bindings were secure, ensuring his hands would remain behind his back, a pair of sheers they found in the kitchen were used to cut the ties off his dark and swollen fingers.

Elliot's head fell back in relief as the rigid plastic band was snapped off. She’d never tell him, but she was glad he was in less pain. Maybe it would keep him from being so difficult. Reminding herself that she needed to keep in control, she pushed him toward the table, forcing him into one of the chairs.  Turning her back to him in an intentional show of trust, she retrieved a loaf of bread she'd found in his cupboards that had cheese and some sort of spicy meat cooked into it. She'd eaten half the loaf already, but figured it would be easy for him to manage with his hands still bound.