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SASHA

Monday night, I was walking to the train station on Adams/Wabash to catch the L home considerably later than expected. As usual, I had gotten caught up in a project at work and lost all track of time, but I wasn’t worried about being out alone at night—or early in the morning, as it were—for two good reasons.

First, I was a lupine, meaning I could shift into a wolf and eat someone. Not that I would. I was an omega, after all, so not terribly scary. Plus, who wanted blood on their fur? Gross. But I could probably scare a regular human to death, even though they knew all about us. I’ve found, though, that knowing about something and seeing it in real life—like a shark, for instance—are two completely different things. Even those “small sharks” they talk about are big when you’re underwater. Not that I ever want to kill our predators, what with them being needed for the environment and the great big, beautiful circle of life, but again, seeing something behind glass or on a screen is not the same as “Hey, is that a wolf?” The jolt of adrenaline is a real thing.

Second, and more importantly, I was walking through a safe area. There were occasional pickpockets at night, but they could be easily spotted if I wasn’t texting, so all I had to do was keep my head up and move quickly. That was easily done. What I didn’t expect was an SUV, one of those fancy luxury ones, to come careening around the corner, tires squealing, the whole bit, roll up on the sidewalk, and dump a body right there at the entrance to an alley.

I stood there, watched them drive away, lifted my phone and took a shot of the license plate, because one had to be smart about reporting foul play, then called 911. I then bolted across the street to see if whoever was lying there, sprawled in a heap, was dead or alive. I was really hoping for alive when I went to check. I’d never seen a dead body outside of a funeral, and I really had no desire to change that.

The 911 operator, a woman, was kind. She asked me what the emergency was, and I explained that a person had been thrown out of a car, where I was, and what I had seen. She had me check the person, and she stayed on the line as I felt for a pulse.

It had rained earlier, it was the first week in November after all, so when I went to my knees, my chinos were immediately wet.

“It’s a man,” I told her. “He’s covered in blood, and his shirt is a mess.”

“You’re doing really well,” she praised me. “Now tell me what else you see.”

He had a suit on under a wool trench coat, and there were several wounds in his abdomen and one in his chest. And then, of course, because this was how things went for me, I saw the crest of the house to which he owed allegiance. It wasn’t his own, because I knew as well as everyone else that he’d been disinherited, but instead a sapphire-and-gold stick pin on his left lapel that let anyone know that he stood at the top of lupine society, and now belonged to one of the most prestigious families. Davenport. Graeme Davenport the Fifth, to be exact.

Immediately, I pulled my hand back like I’d been burned. I’d missed his scent earlier as there was so much blood, both the stains and smell, assaulting.

“You’re certain he’s a lupine?” the operator asked me.

“Yes.” I recoiled from him, sitting back, trying not to scowl.

“Is he breathing?”

I wasn’t about to touch him a second time; I couldn’t. What was helpful was that my lupine hearing was excellent and I could hear his heart beating and his lungs working ever so faintly. “He is, but barely. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I have police and EMTs coming now. They’re only two minutes out, so please stay there with him.”

“Certainly.”

“May I ask what makes you think he’s a lupine?”

“Because I’m one as well and he’s wearing a lapel pin with the crest of his house.”

“If he has a crest, he’s from a very high-up family, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“I do. He’s Deacon Houghton-Crowne, and he belongs to the house of Graeme Davenport.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Davenport gives generously to the Chicago Police Department every year,” she told me. Like I didn’t know that. Like everyone didn’t know that. His mate was a police detective, after all. It would be weird if he didn’t donate.

“I’m sure he does,” I said, instead of, “Well then, you should probably save a member of his house.” I was working on trying to curb my sarcasm. My boss often said he had no idea how I’d lived so long, because he couldn’t possibly be the only one who wanted to murder me on a regular basis.

“I’ll let the responding EMTs know that he’s a lupine.”

“How much longer?” I asked, beginning to feel more and more anxious. I really didn’t want to be here.