No Dogs Allowed

The Wine&Dine Canines of the Upper West Side

The 607 was the alias of the 607 invasive solution corrosion surgery, a half-century old phenomenon consisting of cut, burn, neutralize, repeat. It was high risk, but it was also the only option of getting rid of the poison.

Nonetheless.

"Nonetheless," I said, "I think I've made some enemies."

Nia took a bite of her sandwich and angled it at me. "You think?" She scoffed through a mouthful of tomato. "Oh, you know."

The burning daisy yellow of the late-March afternoon swept over us, the shadows of the Talon's looming figure barely covering us from its soft burn. I sat on the steps in front of the Talon, Nia beside me, the gates behind me, and two veggie sandwiches to show for it between us. The reminder of the dreadful spring banquet following Kane's confession had elicited my best backup. And, frankly, my only backup.

"You look like shredded, wilted, sale-price lettuce," she said, shaking her head. "If you called me to help you, wrong person."

"Who was I supposed to call?"

"I don't know, Jesus?"

"I'm pretty sure I've been blocked by that contact for a while." I sighed, pushing my purple and orange waves from my face. "How long have you known Kane, by any chance?"

"Kane," she repeated, raising a brow at me. She hummed, took a bite of the sandwich. "Sophomore year? We only know each other because of the teams. We talked more when he became captain because we had to work out times to use the Corvidae."

"When did he get that tattoo?" I asked.

"What, that thing on his neck?" She frowned. "Can't remember. Why?"

I drummed my fingers on my legs. "The captain before him," I began, and watched Nia freeze. "Did you know her?"

Nia seemed to debate how to answer that. She pressed her lips tight together. "A little. She was nice. Kane and her were really close. I think he was like her troubled child, you know?"

"How?"

"What's with all the serious questions so early in the morning, man?" she said, waving that away. "I thought I was here to help you look less like a trampled cockroach for your banquet."

"What's the deal about this banquet?" I asked. "Isn't it just food and pretending to like each other?"

"You wish," she scoffed. "No, Echo, this isn't a banquet, it's the banquet. The NCAA D1 Spring Banquet is basically a walkthrough for picking out the blue-ribbon sows—it's a mild-mannered bloodbath." She pointed at my face. "And with last week's match, you're gearing to be culled."

"You know, I called you here for some bold-faced encouragement, not all this useless reality," I snapped. "At least be nice enough to help me out, then."

"With surviving? I'd ask your crow crew," she said. "But I can help you look decent. I raided my mom's closet. I managed to steal some old suit from her corporate days."

She reached behind her and rifled through her backpack, before procuring said suit and slamming it onto my knees, the polyester navy blue and just crappy enough to be of my standards. I raised a brow.

"Looks cheap," I said. "Did she buy this from some pixie thrift store?"

"Better. Werewolf flea market," she said.

I hummed. "Much better. What do I owe you?"

"Saving your head, and frankly, some makeup," she said, grimacing at the scratches and bruises still adorning my face and throat. "I don't take your bougie birds comes with a special-effects-for-fuckups-artist."