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Souls of the Night – Vol3.

72.

Michael Panucchi felt as if the ground was crumbling away beneath his feet. He was in free fall - a feeling of total terror that was so all-encompassing that no anger, no hatred, no panic could take hold, but a dull heaviness had settled around his brain and emotions that only accentuated the drug-muted numbness of his body. He felt too raw to complain, to scream, to cry. It wasn't the coma he had been in for three days that did it. It wasn't because of the strong painkillers he had been given since they had operated the arrow (a fucking ARROW!) out of his chest.

Alessio was dead. The cops had confirmed this to him yesterday, even though he had seen the attack himself. He had fallen and broken his neck during their assault on LeXa ltd and the attempted murder of Lexington Wyvern. Fallen. Alessio Panucchi torn from life because he tripped and fell. How undignified. But who would have believed the truth? The 'A 9 foot green Hulk monster broke my brother when he swept him aside like a rag doll' story wouldn't have sent him to SingSing but straight to the booby hatch in a padded cell. He somehow preferred handcuffs to a straitjacket.

But even though he was keen not to go to the insane asylum, Michael didn't care about anything else. Yesterday he had tried to answer as many of the cops' questions as his foggy head would allow. Not because he had suddenly become a snitch, but simply because he didn't give a FUCK. One year in jail - ten years ... he wouldn't fight anymore. He couldn't anymore. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt peace. Maybe he found it in prison. Or maybe he found there a knife in his back that finished what the arrow had failed to do. In that respect, he could only win.

If he called his dad in Chicago, after his grief over Alessio and his anger that Michael hadn't been able to protect him, he'd get him a place under Senior Dracon's wing. With a place under said wing would come the services of good lawyers. But he had no interest in that. Honestly ... fervently embracing the gangster life should have been Alessio's path (before the Gargoyle shit that had haunted them since they were kids). Michael didn't even know what his path should have been. He didn't know what he wanted anymore, but it wasn't to be famous in Chicago's underworld as the chickenshit who hadn't even managed to protect his brother. Already the second brother he remembered bitterly. God, how was he supposed to break this to his mom? Where he could handle the shame and anger and his father's teeth-gnashing sense of responsibility towards him, he couldn't bear the grief, the crying, the heartbreak of his mom. Michael lost the last bit of tiredness, slipped into the ever-so-brief wakefulness and opened his eyes.

He was still lying in his narrow hospital bed. But now a woman was sitting at the end of his bed. She had blonde shoulder-length hair, cut in an unobtrusive yet chic way that no low-end coiffeur could manage, wore a dark blue trouser suit that was tailor-made and therefore did not detract from her femininity, and her blue eyes were captivating even in the yellowish light from behind the headboard of his bed. She looked at him unblinkingly and it was an amazing skill that she didn't give the impression of staring bluntly. She just looked at him, sitting there with one leg over the other, her hands with discreetly clear-lacquered, short-cut but filed fingernails in her lap. She seemed a billion years ahead of all the women Michael had grown up with or dated so far. Like a being from another planet.

"Good evening, Mr. Panucchi," she said, and her voice with its calm, pleasant English accent underlined the impression that she couldn't possibly be older than twenty-five. More than ten years younger than him! Yet she seemed so composed, so at peace with herself, so observant, as if she were many times older.

"Michael will do," he said huskily, closing his eyes so that this woman couldn't see how wet they were. In the past, when he had been out with his brothers, there was always a doubt as to who was meant by Mr. Panucchi. Now he was the only Mr. Panucchi left. Alessio had been an asshole - more often than not - and his hatred of Gargoyles or Graziella Dracon or Sonny had gotten them both into so much fucking trouble. But now he was alone. Really alone. Why was the numbness starting to lift now that he was lying across from this strange woman? Because he had been thinking about Sonny? Otherwise he pushed him out of his thoughts. He kept it like Horton hears a Who - If you can't see, hear, or feel something it doesn't exist.

"I'm sorry for your loss," said the woman sitting at the end of his bed.

He opened his eyes again and glared at her.

"You can shove your hypocritical condolences up your ass," he said coldly. Otherwise he had always been the understanding one, the nice one, the one who was grounded and reasonable. That line had been his last tribute to his dead brother.

The woman stretched out her legs. The pants of her trouser suit had a crease. The fabric looked expensive and delicate. The whole woman looked expensive - though not delicate - because her shoulders were a little too broad and her gaze - although she was smiling - too cold.

"Who do you think I am?" she asked.

"Not a cop. The clothes are too smart for that," he said and the woman smiled.

"I'm anything but a Bobby. Not a lawyer either. You don't have enough friends left who would send you lawyers."

"I'm not going for that," Michael said, trying to sit up and failing with a groan.

The woman stood up for the first time, came to him and reached for something on the side table next to his bed, which turned out to be a full glass of water. Her wrists, her skin, her clothes didn't smell of any expensive perfume, soap or detergent – they didn't smell of anything. Which Michael appreciated but also found wrong on a subconscious level. Michael lifted his right hand - until it clinked and the tug on his wrist reminded him that he was handcuffed to the bed frame. Then he used his left and grabbed the glass. It was made of plastic. The woman raised his headboard enough for him to drink. The liquid did him good, even if the pain in his chest radiated in pulsating waves and his hand trembled, so that he sighed with relief when she took the glass from him again.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said. "Shall I lower the headboard again?"

"No, it's okay," he said and tried to smile. It hurt and felt wrong.

"Isn't my room under police surveillance?" he asked, already exhausted again.

"Not at the moment," the woman said cryptically. Which could mean pretty much anything from `I bribed the guards` to `The bodies of all the cops and ward staff are piled up in the next room`.

"Who are you?"

"You can call me Veronika."

"Veronika Who?"

"You don't have to worry about that right now."

"Not that I could right now. They've pumped me full."

"It's impressive that you're still able to communicate with me so coherently. Or ... not impressive at all," Veronika said, cocking her head to one side and looking at Michael in an inquiring yet knowing way that raised so many questions. The only question for Michael was - did he give a fuck about pursuing these questions?

The womas gaze stopped at his torso, scrutinizing his free upper body, which was anything but free because it was thickly bandaged. An unspoken request. Well okay- he wasn't dazed enough or already too deep in his depression not to be curious.

"What are you going to do with me?" he asked. Because no doubt a person like that wouldn't make it past police lines if they didn't have a plan.

"I want to get you out of here. Me and my people will make sure you can heal. You'll come out of this stronger than before. I want you on my team."

"A team for what?"

"I'll tell you later. I just need your loyalty, your willingness to live and float back to the top. It won't be to your disadvantage financially either and who knows what else you'll find to give your life new meaning."

"You want to recruit me? I've been pierced by an arrow and may never get back on my feet."

"But you will. You're worth it," the woman said as if there was no doubt and as if months of physiotherapy were no obstacle and Michael couldn't remember anyone saying anything like that to him before. He looked at her and felt how expressionless and bewildered his face must look.

Then he smiled wryly.

"Let me guess. It's about dealing with Gargoyles."

Veronika smiled much more broadly than before. Where did the cliché about English people having bad teeth come from? She could advertise toothpaste with her teeth.

"I knew you'd be a win," she whispered proudly, even though he hadn't done anything anyone could be proud of.

"I haven't said yes yet. Unfortunately, you just missed my brother. He was the passionate gargoyle hater. It cost him his life."

The woman looked perplexed for a moment before raising a light eyebrow. "Really? Was it the gargoyles? Wasn't it more the ogre?"

Michael lost all further thought. His mind was completely blank while Veronika gave him the seconds he needed to grasp this information. Suddenly there was no longer any doubt. He would follow this woman into the deadly rabbithole she would surely drag him into. A world where people like his parents, Graziella Dracon and Sonny were forgettable and even Gargoyles would be considered boring.

"I don't want mindless, blind revenge," he said, knowing it was true even if there was sure to be a lot of bloodshed.

"You would have disappointed me if you were someone like that. You can't have too many of that caliber. They're good as a vanguard, as a distraction or to give the impression that the snake has no head - but no one knows better than you what happens to people like that," Veronika said with a pragmatic coldness that was like ice water to Michael. For the first time, his body was lifted out of the sluggish heaviness of his traumas. It was ... frightening. And liberating.

He lifted his unbound left hand and held it out to the woman, withstanding her gaze.

"Let's see where this takes us."

"That works for me too. Welcome to the team, Michael."

.

.

The black wolf awoke from his dead sleep with a jolt. The first thing he saw in a blur were the bars. Sturdy, solid. A cage in the light of ceiling lamps. He smelled iron, concrete dust, but above all fear and blood. His stomach growled at the latter. He turned his head and there, in the corner, a human was pressed against the bars as if he could squeeze through by desperate force of will. He had a laceration on his head with dried blood, trembling, looking at the wolf with wide panicked eyes.

The eyes of a frightened prey animal. The wolf rose to its feet, still drowsy. It was difficult to coordinate the four limbs after the load of anesthetics. He was weakened, confused, in foreign territory and behind bars. But this pathetic human, less than 25 years old, with eyes that reflected the naivety and unworldliness of the children of privileged parents and affluent societies, would never be a threat. The wolf licked its chops with a much too dry, much too spongy tongue, then bared its teeth in a low growl. For whatever reason the people who had caught him had left this guy in his cell (or cage, rather) - they couldn't have been particularly attached to him.

"Good boy. Good boy. I won't hurt you," said the already dead idiot.

When the young man instinctively lifted his hands from his chest in a gesture that was simultaneously meant to be defensive and reassuring, however, things became clearer to Jim. Ohhh, THIS would be fun for him! He growled as he couldn't laugh and felt the drool forming even though he felt dehydrated. On this little asshole's t-shirt was the logo of the Gathering of the Gargoyles Guild. This guy wasn't here by chance. Whoever had caught him obviously knew who Miller had been as a human. That someone was keeping him behind bars. But he was feeding him. With perfectly tailored chow!

As soon as human Miller and wolf Miller had thought this at the same time, the wolf pounced on the human. His shrill cries of fear and pain turned into gurgling rattles. His arms, previously thrashing at the wolf, fingers tugging at fur, went limp and fell to the side as the wolf quenched his thirst with blood and satisfied his hunger with meat and offal with a gusto that carried with it euphoria and a sense of entitlement.

When the wolf had gorged himself to the point of feeling the painful swelling of his stomach, the pure impulse to tear and gorge gave way. New, more human thoughts slipped into Jim's consciousness, along with more impressions beyond his bars.

The blood clogged his nose in a delicious way, so he couldn't smell the other people in the room. And if they had spoken before, he hadn't heard them over the screaming of his dinner. But now he could no longer block them out.

Quite annoyed that humans were watching him devour his food and forcing his impulses in more human directions, even though the wolf had planned to roll around in the carcass with relish and break a few nice bones out of his joints to gnaw on, he lifted his head out of the cracked chest and glared at the person closest to him. He could feel the blood coating the fur of his face and dripping down well above his perked ears and knew the sight of him was a gruesome spectacle. The faces of the people standing further away reflected this for the most part.

He knew these people! Some of them. The dark-skinned Floyd, one arm in a sling, the other raised in front of his mouth, his skin three shades paler than normal - on the verge of vomiting. The slim but well-trained woman with the buzz cut - Natascha? Yes - Natascha and the man named Panucchi he had hired together with his delightfully gargoyle-hating brother, who looked as tattered as if he had just been released from hospital, just stared. They all reeked of anxiety and worry. Nevertheless, the muscular guy sitting at the table... Gerald Parker, Miller remembered, smiled. Something a human should not do when looking at a blood-covered wolf and that made the beast rather sullen. His brother was not there but... Standing close to him, so close that it was safe to assume that they were at least friends or had worked together often, was an Asian young man. Slightly less muscular, with a face that was somewhere between ordinary and good-looking, with the same calm aura. But Miller's attention automatically turned to the woman who was closer - sitting calmly in a chair and looking at him. She had a smart haircut and smart clothes, but nothing was more captivating than her smell. Subtle perfume - nothing that would overly irk the wolf, so faint that people with human noses would not even have noticed it. And underneath, a peculiar ... nothing. How could that be possible? Moreover, not even a trace of fear. Instead, she smiled and the wolf in him - for the first time ever - recognized an alpha at least equal to him. More than that - a pack leader.

"Good evening, Mr. Miller. I could understand if you were a little miffed about the circumstances of your capture and your current quarters. So I thought I'd sweeten your awakening with an appropriate snack. Was he to your liking?"

Miller glared grimly at the woman for a moment, then huffed in amusement, shaking the last of the fatigue from his limbs so that the blood that wetted his fur almost splattered all the way to the woman's shoes. He squatted on his hind legs and stared at the woman with his wolf eyes. Attentive. Waiting. His wolf was more than sated and was just as curious as his human part about what would happen next.

"You do understand why we had to sedate you, don't you? We needed a safe environment for a first conversation. New wolves or reawakened wolves are terrible negotiating partners. Too much instinct, too little reason. I assume we can now get to know each other on a somewhat secure level?"

Miller didn't know how to answer that as a wolf. He licked blood from his flews and raised and lowered his head in an awkward nod.

"Holy shit, he understands us," Floyd muttered.

Miller growled at him, despite the bars between them, he wouldn't tolerate such stupid comments. The fact that these four people (Floyd, Natascha, Panucchi and Parker) were here was proof that they hadn't died for his cause anyway, or had wanted to die. That didn't make him like them any more. Miller was ungracious, but the wolf was even less forgiving. Floyd did well to step back with his head ducked, flooding the room with more stench of fear.

"Mr. Miller," the woman in the front row demanded his attention again. The wolf knew she was worth it.

"I have an offer to make you that I'm sure will interest you. I have also recruited the other people gathered here with their previous experience in anti-Gargoyle warfare. I know your last attempt didn't end ideally, but the bombings were a feast for all senses. And I followed your blog from overseas with interest, especially about your technical gimmicks designed to override the Gargoyles' tricks of evading artificial eyes. That's very interesting and I would like to sponsor you in this area. I consider your technical expertise and your passion in the matter to be valuable. Would you be interested in working for me?" asked the woman, who had not even given the slightest impression that she found it strange to talk to a wolf - or to hold a monologue.

Miller felt highly flattered. The wolf was a little suspicious of the lack of scent and natural fear, but basically anyone who fed him Gargoyle sympathizers couldn't be such a bad partner. The woman was intriguing. And she wanted to sponsor him. He could certainly get all the camera models he wanted. Finally someone who supported his passion - something he had been looking for for years. He had no idea how she was going to turn him back into a human being (because you needed thumbs to modify his cameras) but he had no doubt that the lady already had ways and means in mind.

So he did something that felt stupid and unnatural (probably because wolves never did that) and bayed his approval loudly.

The woman smiled broadly - almost wolfishly.

"Floyd, please let Mr. Miller out of the cage." And although she said please and sounded very casual, it was an order. Floyd gasped, his tall, well-toned figure suddenly worthless. But after a few horrified looks at the other people in the room and the certainty that no one would take this honor from him, he started to move. He came to the cage door, which was secured by a combination lock, entered a four-digit code and opened the door, making a ridiculous effort to keep bars between himself and the wolf. Floyd was of little interest to Miller - and the wolf was stuffed and Floyd wasn't worth a bite as long as he remained respectful. The black animal ambled leisurely and gracefully across the room to the woman, who remained seated - not an expression of rudeness but of the least possible threatening gesture. Miller sat down in front of her, waiting, and only then noticed the jar she was holding, which contained a gray powder or ash.

"This here," she said, "is a small aid to help you with your re-transformation. Until you have learned to shift back and forth according to your will. I don't have the honor of being a werewolf myself, but I do have access to ... a lot of knowledge about everything magical and what people call supernatural nowadays. As well as other resources you may find helpful. Would you like to try it out? Just take a deep breath." She poured some onto her palm and held it out to him (the big wolf with a bloody snout) as if he were a tame deer. Rebelling against his wolf instincts and a little offended wolf pride, Miller leaned forward and pressed his nose into it. What did he have to lose? And what did he have to gain by following this alpha for a while until he could stand on his own paws? The powder smelled spicy, tingling his nose almost like pepper, and the wolf backed away, wincing, baring his teeth and sneezing so violently that he was catapulted half a yard into the air. When he came back up, he crumpled to the side on his bare human feet and landed on his bare ass. Jim Miller sneezed two or three more times, then wiped the snot off his face and blinked at the woman with teary eyes.

She had stood up and was holding a folded T-shirt and sweatpants out to him. "If you feel like taking a shower, Natascha will show you to your quarters on the upper floor. It even has a window that opens at the touch of a paw. You're not a prisoner - on the contrary. But joining us will only benefit you and your own crusade."

Miller stifled the first question of who "us" was supposed to be and stood up a little awkwardly, looking at his bloody hands and arms, which were probably just as filthy as the rest of him. As a wolf, it had felt natural. As a human, the grease on his skin felt uncomfortable. He realized that he preferred being a wolf. But he could be both now, couldn't he? He took the clothes but didn't bother to cover his nakedness, neither in front of his old/new packmates nor his new alpha. His bare butt or his hanging member, his body that was no longer young, taut, let alone clean, even his post-gluttony swollen belly he carried with indifferent nonchalance. He found the human sensitivities completely pointless. He would decide when to make use of such restraints, knowing that from now on he would play the human James Miller at most. He was better than ever, he could still feel the wolf in his head and the fur under his skin.

"A shower and a bed sounds good," Miller said, turning his disdainful gaze to the others. He could still smell their caution. He liked it that way. Natascha gestured for him to follow her with a rather pinched face. She didn't want him at her back either. Before he was led out of the door, he turned around again.

"With whom do I actually have the honor, Miss-"

"Veronika. Just call me Veronika. We'll talk about the rest tomorrow. Get some rest."

"Gladly. Please call me Jim. But in addition to my occupation with you, I will also have to take care of family matters on the side. My daughter needs to know that I'm okay and that I'll be keeping an eye on her. Can you help me find my Harper? I assume the police have relocated her."

Veronika cracked a smile that seemed much friendlier than his gleeful snarl.

"That should be a quick problem to solve. Family is important. We'll keep a low profile for a few months until all the preparations have been completed, you feel at home in your wolf and the injuries to your team-mates from the last mission have healed. Just make sure that neither the police nor dog catchers capture you. And don't mangle any humans, we'll keep you and your wolf fed. Good night, James. Welcome to the team."

.

Harper Miller was sitting with Madame and Andre over a late post-dinner tea. The whole household had eaten homemade pizza together and Andre (although officially here for a follow-up interrogation) had also helped himself to a few slices. And as with the pizza, Harper Miller herself was holding back on the tea. She smiled, but it was a tired, tortured smile, as if she were a piece of ceramic in which the hairline cracks had already been laid and it would only take a few small jolts to shatter her. She was only sitting here out of politeness and would probably rather be in her room, where she spent most of the days and nights. If Madame didn't insist on eating together during the day and if the bathrooms weren't separated from the bedrooms, the residents would hardly see her.

But that didn't mean that Harper was idle. She moved around the house by the hour, distracting herself (or doing her bit) by cleaning and tidying up. No one wanted to deny her this, as everyone sensed that this was her way of fighting her fears and shutting out her worries. She was quiet, almost skulking around as if she was afraid a floorboard that squeaked too loudly would bring the sky down on her. Andre had hoped that she would feel less threatened, less shaky in this house, but he had thought wrong. He thought feverishly about how he could improve the situation. He felt sorry for Miss Miller. Besides, he had yet to find any trace of James Miller or a black wolf prowling around.

Emery- the youngest in the house poked his head through the door.

"Harp- come watch TV," he ordered.

The young woman's eyes lit up for the first time along with a small grateful smile. A quickly vanishing expression that was enough to make Andre's heart leap. Before she could look at Madame or Andre, Madame stroked her arm - casually and yet not casually at all.

"Good night, Harper," she said, relieving her newest lodger of all social duties.

Afterwards Andre and Madame got up and put their cups in the dishwasher. They were very quiet when they spoke.

"I wanted to say thank you again," said Andre.

"Not for that. She appeals to the protective and scent-marking instincts in all of us. Even with Emery."

"At least with him as a child, it'll be the least weird for her, too. She thinks he's just cuddly. I'm glad you're hiding her. It's safer that she no longer smells of herself but like all of you. Although the stench of her medication is still dominant... that wouldn't be something that would stand out in New York because so many people take antidepressants. She'll need that armor when she goes out again and I can't find her father. She has to live again at some point. What she's doing now with her time... is just harmful."

"She hardly dares to look out of a window. Let alone go outside. But we're working on it. No sign yet? Neither human nor wolf?"

"Nothing at all."

"I don't hear anything from the other packs either."

"I'm working on it."

"I know you are. Harper needs you. She's a good girl." Madame's smirk turned sly. "She'd make a good mate, too."

"Auntie," Andre groaned and the older woman and lady of the house raised her hands in defense.

"Okay okay, mister lone wolf."

The two walked out of the kitchen together. In the living room, they saw Harper sitting on the couch. Emery between her legs, cuddling against her, Laura and Ruby on either side of her, even Tyrone at her feet, haranguing the contestant on a generic quiz show to buy a fucking A because you ALWAYS started with the vowels as though it were a law worthy of the death penalty if you didn't follow it. Andre grinned broadly at the picture and tried not to stare at the same time. Everyone gathered had made physical contact with Harper in some way, no matter how small. And Harper, although she could neither smell it nor classify it, had a calmer heartbeat, a more relaxed posture, smiled more easily than she had done before. She was in the middle of things without anyone pushing her. She needed that. She was not a wolf like her father (however he had become one) but she had something of a lost puppy who craved affection and companionship but was too frightened to satisfy even these most basic needs herself. Madame's flat-sharing community was just right for her. Yes, they were all making an effort.

Madame accompanied him to the front door, where she wanted to light a joint. But the older woman paused, raised her suddenly golden gleaming eyes and then let her gaze wander over the street. Left, right, even the roofs of the houses opposite.

The low rumble in her throat made the hair on Andre's arms stand up. Then she cleared her throat, blinked and was only human again. She was no longer young and no longer the alpha of this ragpack pack just because of her strength. Her experience and intuition were her strongest arguments in her favor.

They both lifted their heads, sniffed the air, then sighed.

"I'm working on it," he promised, kissing his aunt on the cheek and walking away.

Madame sighed somewhat theatrically. "And I'm going to pee in the garden. Just to be on the safe side."

Holy shit, I barely let one antagonist die and three new ones pop up. I feel like I'm in Hazbin Hotel and this show is literally playing in hell, so no one should be surprised. But here... this is New York, not the damn he ... - hmm never mind -..-

Maybe I'll think of something nice for the next chapter... maybe why not, I'm in the mood for a wedding. Fan service for Fox. And ... what is with Enya and Brent?