Tree branches interlocked over the narrow stretch of gravel road, shielding our car intermittently from the winter sun. I felt like we were nestled in the rib cage of some giant, decaying beast; everything in the woods was slowly rotting, and the moist smell of it seeped in through the cracked windows and heating vents. I wrinkled my nose at the motley leaf litter, wondering just how many bugs and spiders called it home.
Somewhere ahead, by all reports, was a mansion with the finest luxuries mankind had to offer. It amused me that this pinnacle of civilisation, as Waters had proudly referred to the recently renovated estate, belonged to what was arguably the least refined example of humanity: a race of half-wild beast men, who inspired the pages of countless romance novels and Netflix scripts with their caveman approach to romance. I wondered if werewolves bought into the cheesy soul-mate nonsense, or worse; the glorification of Stockholm syndrome, masquerading as paranormal romance and littering the discover page of my audiobook store.
My head was so littered with all the various takes on werewolf legends that I realised, as I headed into the den of their most powerful leader, that I knew very little about the mess I was getting myself into. All I knew for certain — if the books and shows were to be believed — was that someone ridiculously powerful and compellingly attractive was sure to fall head-over-heels in love with me at first sight.
And then they would try and force me to love them back.
Ruben tapped my knee. Looking to him in silent question, he proffered a silent answer, bundled in one hand. It was one of the sweaters he'd packed at my apartment without my permission. Suddenly glad for his audacity in that moment, I accepted his offering with grateful haste, sticking both arms through the holes and shrugging it over my head.
The wool caught around my elbows and enveloped my head in a little capsule of darkness. "How long until we get there?" I asked, my words muffled along with the light. No one answered as I shifted this way and that, pulling the navy fabric free of my face.
And then I saw why.
A golden field stretched on for acres, rimmed by dense bushland on all sides. The gravel road had transitioned into smooth, black tar, marked with lines so crisp they must have been recently painted.
But the road, for all its uncanny symmetry in the midst of this wild plain, could not compete for my attention with the glorious house looming beyond the windshield. Glass, wood and stone were ingeniously staggered to create several tiers of luxurious accomodation. Each rooftop featured a new recreational space, and my eyes struggled to accommodate the wealth on display. The crystal blues of swimming pools; lush, emerald gardens, bejewelled with seasonal flowers; bustling restaurants with ruby heat lamps; golden galleries in which to catch one's breath.
I was surprised by the intensity of the urge I felt to explore the mansion; to drink in the unique aesthetic of every room and snatch up every shiny memory the place had on offer, like a greedy magpie pecking up spare change on the sidewalk. I could scarcely believe, looking at how these people lived on the daily, that I'd ever been content with the cramped city apartment I shared with my mother. Was I like that sad, colourful little fish she kept in the bowl on the kitchen bench, getting duller and more lethargic with each day? Enrichment aside, had I ever truly had room to breathe?
"It's beautiful," I breathed, leaning through the gap between the front seats.
"It's a work in progress," Waters said, glowing with pride. "But we've done well to come this far in just four months, considering we had to rebuild it from scratch."
Ruben leaned forward, too, his shoulder brushing against mine. "So the mansion was destroyed last summer. Was Chance responsible for its demolition, as the rumours claim?"
"Sort of," Waters said, navigating the vast roundabout at the main entrance. It even featured a bloody water fountain, sparkling with futile wishes. I made a mental note to visit again under the cover of darkness, to relieve those coins from their watery grave and fulfil some materialistic wishes of my own.
Waters took a slip lane that led to an underground parking lot. "Do you remember that spat between the Nightshade and Irephang families?"
Who hadn't heard of the shadow war between werewolves and vampires, brought to a head by the untimely death of Chance Nightshade's brother? Arthur had been killed by the Irephang prince himself, and I could only assume that London's eyes had been compellingly green to have stayed Chance's vengeful hand. Rumour had it they'd struck up a star-crossed love and worked together to bring an end to the war, which had ended when the vampire threw himself on a sword meant for her. Tragic, really. No one would ever find out if a vampire and a werewolf were able to have children now.
"On the night of Arthur's funeral, vampires sieged this estate." Waters paused as he pulled into a spot near the elevator, reserved for City Beta. "They put silver powder in the water tanks and triggered the fire alarm. We had to get rid of everything — furniture, carpets, you name it."
Waters engaged the handbrake and killed the ignition, turning around in his chair to look at me directly. "Later, when Ford tried to execute Chance for colluding with the enemy, Chance fought back. Her dominance... the force of her will... it's like fire," he summarised, with the frustrated look of someone who knows they're explaining something complex inadequately. "It basically vaporised the previous City Pack and demolished what was left of the mansion. Only the foundations holding up the throne room survived, and once everyone was safely evacuated, that miraculously collapsed, too."
Ruben frowned. "I don't understand how she destroyed everything to the exclusion of her people."
"Neither do I," Waters admitted, opening his door. "I don't think Chance even knows how she did it."
"Sounds like magic," I muttered, fascinated by the notion of a werewolf casting spells.
But isn't that what she did at Superstition? I thought abruptly, humour dissipating as I recalled the mysterious heatwave that preceded her arrival. At the time I hadn't understood why someone would manifest their energy in such a useless way, but if the City Alpha wasn't aware that she was doing it... if she could generate that kind of power subconsciously, without actually trying...
I allowed myself to be herded into the elevator. It was an impressive space, made entirely from crystal clear glass that showcased the intricate cables and pulleys. Waters pressed a button and scanned his thumbprint to authorise access to the penthouse.
We gained a new perspective of the estate with every level we climbed. Jealousy needled at my sense of wonder; how lucky Chance was, to call this modern palace home. It was hard to believe all of this had sprung up in the last four months.
"It's so roomy in here," Holden mused, swinging his arms about to emphasise his point. I realised he had a piece of paper scrunched up in one had.
Waters grunted. "Chance isn't a massive fan of tight spaces."
I was about to make a crude joke about the probability of her not liking a specific part of my anatomy when I realised something. "Holden?" I asked sweetly, fluttering my eyelashes at the red-headed boy. "How exactly are you not burning to a crisp?"
Sunlight streamed through the elevator walls, bathing our group in light and heat. But the eternal vampire merely grinned, tugging aside the neck of his sweater to show me a spidery rune inked into his pale, freckled skin.
"My payment," Holden said. "For joining the task force. It's some kind of ward against the sunlight."
It was certainly a handsome reward. Immortality with the perks of mortality — it was a wonder they wasn't a tattoo parlour on the corner of every street. "I didn't even realise that was possible," I said, before the realisation dawned on me. "Wait, you guys are getting paid to do this?"
Holden's chuckle was my only answer as the elevator came to a smooth stop. The doors slid open, and I followed our strange group into a spacious apartment. The way the furniture and plants were arranged to create different zones in the open floor plan reminded me of the Watchtower level of the Superstition club. I received a fleeting impression of charcoal carpets and exposed wooden beams before before a conversation ensnared my attention.
"... just heard back from Piper," said the stranger leaning against the kitchen bench. Perfectly tousled chestnut hair, burnished skin, carved like a Christmas roast... he looked like a Teen Wolf cast member, with a French accent as a cherry on top. "There haven't been any sightings of Corinne yet, but she thinks she has a lead on the location of the arena."
"Oh?" Chance asked.
"She's saying the entrance changes every time, but she always ends up in the same pit. Ringing any bells for you?"
"Sounds like they're operating from a cache," she muttered. "Which means they're working with someone from the Incantum. Does she have any idea who it might be?"
"No," the man replied. "She's still working her way up the ranks, but the pits are flooding with new gladiators looking to make a quick buck. It's going to be a while before she can gain the attention of the top sponsors. Unless..."
Chance's face tightened with anger. "No. I already told you, Jerome, I don't want you fighting in that arena. I can't guarantee your safety there."
"I understand, but it might be our only option," he said, remarkably brave in disagreeing with her. "Doubles battles are all the rage right now, and I'm the only one with first hand experience. And we have to take into account that... Never mind, we have visitors."
They twisted their heads to assess our odd bunch. Chance, Jerome and Waters shared a badass nod; I contributed to the moment with a kilowatt smile and a cute little wave, which earned a frown from all of them. Chance's attention slid over Seth and Ruben, both of whom she was apparently already familiar with, before her attention lingered on Holden, recognition flickering in her feral eyes.
"I brought it," Holden said, thrusting the crumpled paperwork into the space between them. "A written invitation from yours truly."
Chance arched an eyebrow, but took the page off him and shook it out nonetheless. Standing on the tips of my toes, I made out messy scrawl with a looping signature down the bottom.
"Good," she said, handing the letter back. Her smile was slow and insidious, like oil spilling from a sinking ship. "I won't have to kill you, then."