Werewolves of Manhattan Box Set

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1Monday

The low grey clouds masked the half-moon giving the night an eerie diffused glow. Christopher Street’s sidewalks sparkled under the streetlights after the early evening rain. The water washed the city streets clean of soot and put the distinct smell of autumn in the air. Until this year, Sean had always loved October. The leaves of the trees planted between the sidewalk and the curb began to change color from green to yellow, then red to brown. Lights shown through the windows of the apartments created from the Federal era brownstone houses that lined the street. Sometimes he saw a fireplace lit from behind the French balconies. In contrast to the aura of peaceful urban oasis above the sidewalks, outside, groups of five or six young gay men strolled up the pavement, soon to be followed by posses of ten or more. They shouted and jostled each other passed the famous Stonewall Inn where the first stirring of the Gay Liberation movement began, continued from Christopher, down to West Street and onto the Christopher Street Pier built on the Hudson River.

A few of the more boisterous gangs led each of the two packs toward their destination—those who sold their bodies and those just hoping to get lucky. But tonight all he noticed was the churning in his gut. He hadn’t eaten in three days. Tonight he was going to do it, sell himself. He had no choice.

Since August he’d been spending his nights on the floors of his friends’ dorm rooms. He lost his apartment because he couldn’t pay his share of the rent and had no money for tuition for his last semester. The art gallery where he worked to make ends meet laid him off in September because art wasn’t a priority in the midst of the economic downturn.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this; but it was either sell himself or stay out on the street. Sean was frightened; but too hungry to care and enough of a pragmatist to know what had to be done. He had to talk himself into it. Prostitution, simple, he was going to make himself into a rent boy. Tears dropped from his eyelashes and down his high cheekbones. He never understood before why someone would sell themselves for money. Now he knew, rent himself out or starve; those were his choices. Leroy, one of the boys on Chelsea Pier he knew through a friend at NYU, told him that he could make good money at the trade.

“You’re small, blond with fair skin lacking freckles, dude. Your lips are full, your eyes a brilliant green. You look a lot younger than you are. You could make a fortune in this business, the perfect twink, but I think we need to find you a pimp to be safe.”

“This isn’t a life choice. All I want is money to eat and get a place to sleep until I have enough for a bus ticket to Boston. My friend Tony lives there with his wife. He’ll take me in and I’ll get a chance to make a few bucks at an honest job so I can finish school.”

“I’ll watch out for you until you land on your feet. You can crash with me on the sofa; but I can’t afford to feed you.”

“Thanks, I owe you.” They walked down to the pier together.

A huge man lurked at the edge of the pier looking over each boy as he arrived. He appeared dark and menacing.

“Oh s**t, we gotta go hide. Run behind that Dumpster in the alley and don’t come out until I come and get you. That Russian is into rough trade. The boys he likes disappear and he goes for twinks. If you want to stay healthy, run.”

“What about you?” Sean looked around in a panic.

“He doesn’t want me, so I’m safe. Now go—trust me.” Sean ran. Leroy didn’t have to tell him twice. He was about to prostitute himself, but he was no fool. He hid behind a large green Dumpster on the right side of the alley. He pulled garbage bags and garbage in front of him for cover.

“I saw him, the blond. Where’d he go?” Sean listened as the huge Russian interrogated Leroy. “You talked to him no more than five minutes ago so you must know him.” The Russian grabbed Leroy by the front of tight black T-shirt and shook him. “You told him to leave, you little rat bastard.”

“He asked me for a joint, then disappeared.” The big man slapped Leroy then held his fist out menacingly. “Okay, Okay. I know him from NYU. He’s green. Look, he isn’t in the trade. He has no experience, you wouldn’t want him.”

“I saw him and I want him, tell me where he went, or I’ll beat the s**t out of you.”

“He went over there, toward the pier,” Leroy said, turning way from where Sean hid behind the Dumpster.

The Russian went into a rage. “What? You think I’m a fool? He slid into that alley.”

“No, no, he went back home. He’s not into this. He’s uh…waiting for someone else, he made an appointment.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t for rent. You’re f*****g with me Leroy. I don’t allow anyone to f**k with me.”

Sean heard and watched in horror as the big man pulled a knife and shoved it into Leroy’s gut. Too frightened to call out, he saw Leroy fall to the ground. The man moved away from the alley, down toward the Dumpster; for a minute Sean thought he saw the guy’s eyes turned red.

“I know you’re out there,” the man shouted. Sean watched as he waved his knife around in the air. The Russian saw him behind the Dumpster and ran toward him catching the edge of his torso with the knife. Sean clutched his side. He ducked and tried to run. The Russian grabbed the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The knife grazed his temple. Sean screamed. He tried to pull Sean up but slipped on a half head of brown lettuce and lost his hold on Sean’s collar. Sean ran toward West Street. The man stopped and sniffed the air. He didn’t follow Sean but turned away from the alley to the loading platforms on the street.

Sean saw him sniff the air again. Sean covered himself in more garbage crouching down behind a second Dumpster. He peered out and got a good look at his face. The Russian began checking doors. One of them opened and he disappeared into the building. Sean, holding his side ran over to Leroy. Leroy was gutted. Having no cell phone; he raced down the alley toward West Street looking behind him, expecting the Russian to find him at any minute. He stopped the first car he saw.

* * * *

Armand La Marche sat in the back seat of his black limousine. He’d had a long day. Mondays were always difficult. As Chief Alpha of the Loup-garou Council of North America, he traveled to New York City frequently on pack business. On the second Monday of every quarter, they held a full council meeting and it was at this time that they arbitrated disagreements among the packs, settled border disputes and planned events to encourage wolves to find their true mates, but all the bickering made him tired and growly. He looked forward to getting back to his city residence.

His pack holdings were in southwestern United States, Mexico and California. He kept his residence in Northern New Mexico except when he flew to New York on pack business. Armand hoped to be able wrap up council affairs by the end of the week. He sighed, tired from seven days of dealing with the fractious Alphas who reported to the High Council in addition to the new trouble reported by the Russian Federation. Armand needed to stand strong to defend the rights of the North American Packs.

“Alpha, there is a bottle of Courvoisier in the bar.”

“Pierre, is it impossible for you to call me Armand?” he asked wearily, having had this conversation one hundred times before. “The French Revolution ended the monarchy. Our branch of the family, being what we are, would not be suited for any throne despite our bloodline. We now have economic power which in this age is all that matters, the title of Alpha is passé and unnecessary.”

He sighed, opened the hinged bar in the back of the limo and indulged himself in the excellent brandy, rolling the amber liquid around in his glass. They stopped for a light. He picked up a scent in the air strange for the city…vanilla, fresh linen? He lifted his head to sniff the air again and started to open the window. As the light began to change, a young man ran out of an alley onto West Street and plastered himself to the passenger side door of his limousine knocking frantically on the window. He held on to his side while his head bled profusely down the side of his sweatshirt. The blood transferred to the pane of glass.

“Stop the car,” he shouted to his driver as he fully opened the rear window.

“Please…please call 911, my friend was knifed in the alley.” The boy slumped along the edge of the door grabbing the open window for purchase, then he dropped to his knees. A clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning roiled in the distance the sky opened up with heavy rain.

“Pierre,” Armand shouted to his driver, “Call 911. Check the alley for a body and come back and report to me.”

He opened the door as the boy fell over into the mud. Armand seized him by his shoulders and hoisted him up. The boy swayed on his feet. Armand took hold of the open car door using it to steady himself while he put his arm under the boy’s shoulder so he didn’t fall back down to the sidewalk and the mud. Armand swung the boy to face him and grabbed both arms sitting him in the backseat of the limo.

He knelt down next to the now sitting boy. “You’re bleeding. Let me look.” The boy was covered in dirt and refuse, shivering with shock and cold. Suddenly Armand’s senses fully awoke, assaulted with the smells of vanilla, clean linen, cinnamon, and nutmeg under the stench of the garbage. Armand’s legs grew weak. He slid the young man over on toward the opposite door of the limousine and followed him inside. The part of his brain that was lupine, screamed, “Mate. Mine!”

Armand, amazed, pulled the boy onto his lap laying him flat with the kid’s head on his thighs. He stroked his back in calming circles while examining the boy for damage. He pulled out his cell.

His driver ran back to the car.

“Pierre, how bad?”

“I’m afraid he bled out, sir. Shall I call the authorities?”

Armand nodded. “Here, use my phone and make sure they send Murphy.”

The boy looked like he was in shock. He began to whimper. “He killed Leroy?”

Armand pulled off his jacket and put it around the boy’s shoulders; even wet it retained some of his body heat. He took off his dress shirt, which wasn’t wet and folded it, holding it against the wound in the boy’s side to staunch the blood. His eyes were glazed with fear. Armand took his handkerchief out of the jacket pocket and wiped at the wound on his head.

“Be careful, he went into a door off the dock,” the boy shouted as he shivered.

“I’ll call the detective immediately, sir.”

Sean made a move to sit up poised to leave the limousine.

“No baby, stay here with me, you shouldn’t see that and you’re hurt.” Sean weakly protested. “I have to stay for the police.” Armand paid no attention.

“Pierre, I’m taking the young man back to the house. Call Meg and Dr. Artis while you wait for the squad car and Murphy. I’ll speak with Detective Murphy as soon as we get…what is your name, baby?” Armand took the keys from Pierre.

“Sean, Sean Quinn.”

“…back to the house.”

“Who are you?” asked Sean.

“I’m Armand La Marche.” The boy murmured something unintelligible that sounded like a protest.

Pierre spoke into the phone.

Armand said, “I believe he said the victim’s name was Leroy. As soon as we get Mr. Quinn medical attention he’ll be able to give a statement.”

“Alpha, are you sure this is wise?”

“Mate!” Armand conveyed silently over his alpha link to the chauffer.

“I’ll wait here. Get him to the house.”

* * * *

Sean opened his eyes wide, not quite understanding the undercurrent running through the conversation. “Leroy is dead?” Tears ran down his cheeks. “I barely knew him and he died trying to protect me.” He shook uncontrollably.