The Endangered (2 page)

Chapter 1

The Kettle Drum is a local college dive adjacent to New York University’s campus and a convenient three blocks from my place. The bar extends the length of the left wall, and round tables with little wooden chairs litter the narrow room, making a relaxed, if not cramped, atmosphere.

Perhaps this cozy dive got its name for its acoustics. Besides its $2 drink specials, the true draw of the Kettle rests at the far end where a stage invites the local student bands and DJs to stop by and jam. Thursdays are the exception and maybe the highlight for some—karaoke night.

Tonight the bar is moderately crowded, inviting in a steady stream of thirsty students. I am a Thursday night regular. Not typically a performer, but always eager to be entertained by the drunken frat guys singing their “artful” rendition of 80s classics. Every one of them aspires to be Axel, I swear.

When I arrive on this particular Thursday, I find my friends already settled in, drinks in hand, at our usual table to the far right of the bar. As I pull up a chair, the group is simultaneously joined by Brooke, giddy and bounding back from the karaoke stage. We greet her with cheers.

Having just fled class, I drop my bag from my shoulder and turn my attention to Kylie who is ranting about her favorite topic, Carson.

“He’s impossible,” Kylie moans.

“Who are we talking about?” I feign interest, already knowing the answer.

“Her ex. Who else?”

Rachel rolls her eyes, refilling her glass with the remainder of a pitcher.

“Jersey boy? What’d he do this time?” I’m wondering why I encourage her.    

Kylie restarts her story. Rachel, not one for repeating herself let alone tolerating it from others, intervenes.

“Blew her off to go to the game with the boys.”

“So you’re not together, but you see him when you’re home for a little hanky-panky?”

“No. We’re just friends now.” Kylie is staring down into her empty glass.

“Fuck that. Why stay friends with an ex if you’re not getting the benefits?”

Rachel nods. “That is a great question.”

“Kylie, you got to ask yourself which is more painful—ripping off the Band-Aid or slowly peeling it from your skin.”

She does not follow. Sometimes I wonder how some people got as far as college.

“End it, get closure, stop torturing yourself,” I continue.

Kylie pouts. This night is going south quick. I call for another round.

***

Tucked in the far corner, Adrian observes with evident disinterest, bored and slightly irritated by the antics of drunken college kids. He forces himself to endure their obnoxious banter, reminding himself of past torment of greater degree. Still, he plans for a quick exit if another sorority recites a Britney Spears number. His age sets him apart from the crowd, not to mention his cloaked attire. But there he sits, drinking his whiskey discreetly at a pace that’d put any college kid to shame.

***

“Come on, Kylie, get up there.”

“No way, I haven’t had enough to drink.”

If she thinks we’re going to reward her pathetic behavior with some shots, she doesn’t know us very well. Sympathy isn’t our game. No, we’re going to taunt her mercilessly until she earns the right to wallow neck deep in booze.

“You chickened out last week; don’t think we’re letting you off the hook again,” goads Brett, the preppy frat boy whose depth of music and film trivia may have been the sole reason we hung out with him. He was our ringer on Quizzo nights.

We were getting fairly sloshed off pitchers of cheap beer and are well into the ritual taunting of one another until someone inevitably folds to the pressure and sings. The two guys presently on stage are spilling their beers as they attempt to belt out the lyrics to “Baby Got Back.”

Kylie emits a sigh. “Anything to stop this.”

She makes her way on stage. We cheer victoriously at our accomplishment. One of the guys from a neighboring table hands her the rest of his beer as she passes, and she chugs it on her way up.

Sasha, one of my roommates, joins our table.

“Okay, is that really Kylie up there?”

“You bet. Isn’t peer pressure great?” I point at her backpack. “How was class?”

“Long. I hate night classes.” Sasha plops her bag next to mine and signals the waiter. “Next round’s on me.”

Sasha hands cash to our waiter as he sets down more pitchers.

She turns to me.

“Yo, so guess who followed me in?”

“Who?”

She points toward the bar. I turn to see Ryan flagging the bartender.

“Ryan,” I mutter.

Everyone within earshot suddenly looks from me to the bar and then proceeds to exchange worried glances with one another.

Subtle, guys, real subtle.

Sasha continues, “With that bitch.”

More deer in the headlights glances from the peanut gallery.

Through the crowd I can make out his spiky jet-black hair and, unfortunately, the girl his arm is around.

“Damn it.” I shift in my seat.

One year of an on-again-off-again romance came to a screeching halt two weeks ago when I caught him in the bathroom of a fraternity house making out with some chick that wasn’t me.

Despite all the ups and downs, I really thought we’d persevered and were stronger for it. But I was wrong. Crushed was the feeling in my chest, and possibly his nose, when I slammed the bathroom door shut on his excuse-ridden face. 

“He never came here except when I dragged him. He knew I’d be here.”

“Cheating fucker wanted to show off his new arm candy,” Rachel glowers. 

“Slut.”

“Bastard.”

The peanut gallery gives their two cents. Great friends. All of them.

“You know, maybe I will sing tonight. I suddenly feel inspired.”

“Do it, girl.”

The bar is filling up. I push my way through the crowd over to JD

JD is a cool kid, but he tries too hard. He’s shorter than me, maybe 5'3", and doesn’t look a day over sixteen. As long as I’ve known him, he has worked at the bar—booking bands, carting kegs, and occasionally busing tables. He shares in the management, so I figure him to be at least a year or so my senior. Poor guy. His apparel doesn’t help much either. He dresses like a seventies thrift shop, all baggy tracksuits and gold chains.

He spots me and throws his arm out. I extend mine and am greeted by some over-exuberant handshake that feels more like a thumb war.

“What’ll it be, Lor? Got some shzizzlin’ vibez loaded up. Hot an’ fresh like you."

Sadly, I do not think he has a speech impairment of any kind; he actually talks like that voluntarily.

“Fresh eh? Not tonight. I’m feeling a little down and out.” I sneak a glance down the bar. “Little hostile too.”

“Don’ be lettin’ some loser under yo’ skin. Won’t taw’late it.”

“Naw, JD, just feelin’ a certain vibe of my own right now.”

“An’ what’s the gut spew’n?”

I flip through his extensive catalogue, which is mostly wasted in this environment where the same Bon Jovi and Journey songs are beaten to death every week. My finger lands on the list.

“Throw up some Incubus. Old school.”

“Alwayz classic with you…been ages tho. Fall’n luv or out?”

“Out. Definitely out.”

My gaze falls down the bar and JD spots the guy I’m eyeing.

“Trouble wit yo boy-toy?”

“Ex boy-toy.”

“Oh fo’ real? Sorry babe.” He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, pulls my attention back. “Fuck ‘im. His loss.”

“Yeah, fuck him.” My tone was not convincing.

“So like, wow, you guyz been an item fo’ while?”

“A year, give or take,” I shrugged. A lifetime in college years.

“Pleeze. Give me an hour and you’ll forget all about ‘im.”

I laugh, pat him on the back and walk over to the bar. 

“You up in three g,” he calls after.

I turn to Zoe, the bartender. We’d met in class freshman year. I’d helped her earn a passing grade and since then she’s always hooked me up.

“Hey, busy night.”

“Yeah, does anyone have class on Friday anymore?”

“Outlawed.” 

“Usual?” She’s already pouring the Smirnoff.

Once again, I steal a glimpse at Ryan. His back is turned, allowing me to stare unnoticed. Well, by him at least.

“Perhaps I’ll pour you another.”

I turn and she nods toward Ryan. It used to be me his arm was around.

“He’s got balls showing up here,” she adds. “Asshole.”

“You said it.” I promptly down one of the shots and set the other aside.

“I’ll put them on his tab.” She grins.

“Thanks.”

JD waves me over.

“Yo’ turn babe.”

I step up on stage, determined not look at Ryan, and pull a bar stool from the corner. Once situated in front of the mic stand, I shut my eyes.

“When it Comes” by Incubus starts to stream from the speakers.

Chapter 2

Combat ensues. East River Park serves as a battleground on this blustering night. Silver swords and white fangs are bright under a nearly full moon. Three vampires tirelessly fend off an angry pack of werewolves. Their figures are otherwise shrouded in a wooded area of the park. The city skyline makes for a dramatic backdrop. Blood and fur cloud the air. The only sound registered by a passerby is the faint howling of a pack of stray dogs.

***

Having finished the song, I beeline for the bar and knock back that shot I’d been saving. A group of girls wearing matching Greek letters takes the stage. Rachel, Kylie, and Brett have joined me at the bar.

“Whoa, where’d that come from?” Brett slaps me across the back. Lucky for him, I’d already gotten the shot down.

“Beer pong tournament at Brett’s frat. You game?”

Rachel seems eager to bounce. She’d recently developed a crush on one of Brett’s brothers and is likely hoping for an introduction. Brett belongs to one of the ‘elitist’ frats that pose as a secret society. Except there is nothing secret about them; they are one of the most prominent houses in SoHo.

While all NYU Greek life resides in one building south of campus, they’ve expanded by inhabiting a house north of Canal. Too good for Chinatown. And their members sport their letters on everything. They even sew them on their boxers…don’t ask.

We’d managed to befriend the most normal of their members. You’d be hard-pressed to find anything Greek in Brett’s daily wardrobe and while he’s as loaded as the rest of ’em, he’s as modest as they come. A rare breed indeed. Kylie vibrates with enthusiasm, grinning ear to ear, pangs of her ex long forgotten.

I shrug. I am clearly outvoted.

“What the hell.”

***

Catch rips a silver scythe from the chest of a werewolf and looks up to see Adrian standing over him.

“How’d things go?”

“We weren’t prepared for this many. Bloody massacre.”

Adrian looks past Catch to the others who are making their way over, bodies sprawled across the grass behind them Catch turns to them and back to Adrian.

“I didn’t fancy you for a New Yorker.”

“I’m in town on business.”

“So are we.” Catch looks around, spots his favorite sword by the decapitated body of an old man, and goes to retrieve it, gesturing at the severed head.

“He was the alpha; sired the others.”

Adrian eyes the now-human body.

“We don’t know what they’re doing here.”

“Expanding. For them, strength equals size.”

“No kidding.” Crina has joined them. “Is that what brings you here, Adrian?”

Catch hands her the blood-soaked scythe.

“Well, it’s a different matter, but it does concern the war. Mind if I have a moment alone with Catch?”

“By all means.” Crina joins Xan who is surveying the damage on his jacket.

“Who is he?” Xan inquires.

“That’s Adrian.”

“
The
Adrian? He looks awfully human for a Pureblood.”

Crina nods. “Must’ve just fed; needed to blend.”

“Why’s he here? He’s a little late for the party.”

“He’s here to see Catch, apparently.”

Adrian places his hand on Catch’s shoulder.

“Come. Walk with me a moment.”

They head uphill, away from prying eyes.

“Tonight I made a decision. And it involves you.”

“Okay. How so?”

“There is someone in the city who I feel will be a great asset to our cause. I’m going to assign you to her. You will send your team back to England, but you will stay behind and determine whether you agree with my intuition. I will confirm things with Marcus.”

“Can I ask why you’ve chosen me for this?”

“You can, but I think she will answer you best. Me, well, I think you’re ready; hell, I think you’re long overdue for a position of more responsibility.”

“I’m second in command under Marcus.” Catch puffs out his chest with reflexive pride.

Adrian laughs, “A different type of responsibility. It’s about time you turned someone, passed on your bloodline, your talents. She will be quite taken by you, I imagine. And you by her.”

Catch is rather thrown by this statement.

“Oh. I uh…I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but, well—it sounds as if you’re playing matchmaker.”

Adrian smirks and Catch studies the grass, kicking up a clump with his toe. They begin to head back toward the others, who are busy stacking the bodies.

“More in the mentor-student sense, but you could say that.”

“So you want me to turn her and show her the ropes, so to speak?”

“Yes. But only if you feel a connection. It’s important that you want to bring her into this because she’s going to rely on you heavily for a while.”

Catch nods. “I remember. I was your shadow for a year or two. You could not shake me. Guess this is payback.”

Adrian gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Who is she? I mean, where do I start?”

“Lori Black. Just started her senior year at NYU.”

Adrian hands Catch a photo of her exiting her house.

“Her address is on the back.”

“How long should I plan on staying in the states?”

“As long as it takes. I want to be certain with this one.”

***

Within minutes Adrian is standing in the shadows across from the frat house where he’d last spotted Lori. He wonders why he’s come back. Further stalking is not really necessary at this point. He starts to leave when Lori comes bursting onto the front porch, one of her friends from the bar draped limply off her shoulder. She supports her, helping her keep her footing as they hurriedly wobble down the steps and around to a side passage lined with shrubbery.

Where were they going? Her friend was visibly dazed. The result of too many keg stands or some equally inane college ritual, he assumes. But something is off. Lori appeared panicked, frantic even.

After a moment he proceeds down the pathway after them. He catches a whiff of fresh blood and it isn’t Lori’s. Police sirens can be heard in the distance.