Nightshatter Page 9

  Their ringleader, a man in his forties, stepped forward. “Ya got anythin’ for me, friend?” He brandished a stout stick and tapped it against his leg.

  “Not your friend,” I replied evenly. “And what I’ve got, is mine.”

  I braced myself when he grabbed me by the arm and hauled me upright. I let his energy pull me forward and used it to drive my fist straight into his stomach. The stick went flying and I snatched it, spinning to snarl at his two friends with my puny human teeth. When I twirled the stick and took a step toward them, they backed away. One grabbed at their leader, still doubled over and making gulping noises. I let them retreat into the darkness, but I kept the stick.

  My own actions surprised me. Despite the years, my body remembered how to respond to such threats. The wulf added speed and power to those reactions, without having to wield a single claw.

  By morning, I’d ascertained that most around here were older than me. I was sure that those recruited to become mutants would be as young as possible. Those just aged out of foster care were likely prime targets. That meant late teens, early twenties. When I spotted a skinny teen skulking around the fringes, I drifted close enough to offer him the stick. He looked shocked at my generosity, but I noticed he clutched it tight.

  Huddled in a nearby alcove, I watched the teen join a few others close to his age. When they rose with the dawn, I trailed along behind them. By late afternoon, I’d made my way to the Siloam Mission.

  My target popped up by accident. As I slipped through a small group outside the mission, my enhanced nose caught a scent so strong it almost stopped me in my tracks—wulf. I leaned against a rough stone foundation and assessed the situation. I focused and inhaled. The scent spoke of long periods without a shower. He had obviously changed form many times, stamping the wulf scent on his skin. I traced it to a man standing about fifteen feet away in a milling group of people. He was enormous, taller than me and bulkier. After a few moments, I judged him to be wulfan. With dark hair untouched by gray and only faint lines around his eyes, he looked to be in his early thirties, although being wulfan he could have been much older. I didn’t think he was an enforcer, not unless he was a master at camouflage. Enforcers carried themselves with a confidence—almost arrogance—as natural to them as a second skin, but they also exuded a calm energy that drew you to them. They made you feel safe. This fellow didn’t lack confidence, but there was a dark undercurrent to him that set my teeth on edge.

  I watched him from my position on the wall. When he moved on, some followed him, and so did I. People came and went around him, greeted him by name—Noah. He seemed respected; a person well known in the community. He might be a valuable link, someone with a finger on the pulse of the population. But Winnipeg’s enforcers were not fools, and they had to know one of their kind lived on the streets. I had no doubt Jason would have capitalized on such a resource and used the wulfan as a source of information. If I wasn’t careful, this guy could send me right back to the cage.

  8

  I hung on the fringes of the group revolving around the wulfan, my senses alert. As the sky darkened, they moved away, traveling west down Higgins Avenue. The many bridges of Winnipeg, spanning two large rivers and multiple creeks, offered areas for homeless to gather and perhaps spend the night.

  I had an idea of where we were headed. Just over a mile away from the mission was the Salter Street Bridge, officially named Slaw Rebchuk Bridge. It spanned the CP rail yards, and Higgins Avenue ran right under it.

  When I was on the streets as a kid, the Salter Street Bridge was known as a rough place. This entire area was a favorite haunt for homeless in the city, providing places for them to hide and sleep. Higgins Avenue was deserted at this time of night. The sidewalk got worse as we walked, with great cracks appearing beneath our feet as the rail yards drew closer. We were surrounded by businesses closed and dark, and the area seemed peaceful, the muffled sounds of the nearby traffic curiously soothing, like waves on a beach. Only if you cast your awareness out did you register the slow shuffle of homeless humanity moving in the shadows.

  The Canadian Pacific rail yards occupied a large expanse of real estate near the old heart of Winnipeg. In places, there were over thirty tracks running parallel to each other, each one occupied by long strings of cars. The yards themselves were kept as clean of debris as possible, but their very nature provided a framework for temporary overnight shelter, so long as you remained aware enough to avoid the active trains. The air stank of diesel fuel and oil.

  The rail yards expanded beside us, the cars nearest standing dark and silent. The yard itself was open until midnight and though it never truly shut down, but the lines along the edges could usually be counted on to remain quiet overnight. As we walked, people disappeared behind buildings, abandoned containers, railcars, and old infrastructure that lined both Higgins Avenue and Sutherland, the two roads that ran parallel to the long lines of tracks. I knew from past experience that Sutherland even had some green spaces, which would be much more comfortable to sleep on than concrete.

  We seemed destined for hard ground, however, as Noah trekked along Higgins, straight for the bridge. Enough people stuck with him that I didn’t feel conspicuous drifting in their wake. I also noticed that those closest to him were young adults, ranging from eighteen to about my age.

  Prime fodder for the mutant revolution. If that’s what it was.

  When we reached the bridge, the group dispersed further, some checking the standing railcars for access—an open car provided good shelter—others moving up beneath the supporting framework of the bridge. The wulfan and about ten young adults set up camp at the bridge’s base while some gathered enough debris to start a small fire. Much as I had the night before, I put my back to concrete and hunkered down.

  It didn’t take long for someone to test me. Two young males from the wulfan’s inner circle sidled over. I ignored them until they stood in front of me. I judged them to be in their early twenties, already toughened by too many years on the streets, with bodies framed more by bone than muscle, faces aged prematurely by either substance abuse or lack of groceries.

  I glared up at them. “You want something?”

  The tall one, with his hands held loose at his sides, moved closer to me. His lank dark hair hung half over his face, but the exposed side revealed a bloodshot eye—a striking pale green that contrasted with his raw-boned, filthy face. Promising a strength he would probably never attain on the streets, the bones of his broad shoulders and chest protruded beneath the torn sweatshirt he wore. The fingers of his right hand twitched and slipped into his pocket. Knife, I guessed.

  “Haven’t seen you around here before,” he said.

  “Not surprising, considering I just arrived,” I replied. “Got a problem with that?” I met his stare full on, not even blinking, keeping my face expressionless.

  “We like to know who we hang with.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  He blinked, and his fingers moved within the pocket.

  The other male appeared a little younger, with hair that might be a light brown beneath the dirt. Not as tall, his spare frame had done better on less food, but he still looked far too thin. He stepped sideways to lure my eye from his friend. “Where’re you from?” he asked.

  “Somewhere else,” I said, deliberately turning my head to face the second male. Which gave Young Adult Number One time to pull the knife from his pocket, and flick open the blade.

  Even as a kid, I’d possessed fast reflexes, but now that the wulf was a permanent part of my human body, I moved like lightning. I was behind Number One, his knife in my hand and pressed against his throat, before his backup boy even flinched.

  “Now you know something else about me,” I growled into his ear. “Don’t. Mess. With. Me.” I felt a shiver pass through him.

  “I’d appreciate it if you let my friend off with a warning.” The deep, well-spoken voice came from behind me, but I’d been aware of his approach. The wul
fan walked into my field of view, his hands held out to his sides. “We can’t be too careful around here. Our lives depend on knowing who we share space with.”

  “Hell of a way to get to know someone,” I said, but I let the young man go. I snapped the switchblade into its handle and perused it with interest. “Nice knife.” The manner in which the young man’s gaze fastened on it told me it had importance to him, and as more than just a means to keep him safe. “If I return it to you, do I have your word it won’t end up in my back?”

  He glanced at me and nodded.

  “Have you lost your voice?” I asked him.

  “No.” Resentment chased away his embarrassment.

  “Then I need your word.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you won’t stab me in the back.”

  His green eyes locked with mine. I knew from experience that few people gave their word and went back on it. At least, not immediately.

  He nodded again and this time added, “Fine. I promise.”

  I handed him the knife, and he returned it to his pocket. Backup boy now regarded me with a wary respect. The wulfan had observed the entire exchange, his dark eyes intense with curiosity.

  “What do you want?” he asked me.

  “To be left alone.”

  He studied my face, then turned and headed back to the fire, trailing backup boy. Number One shifted from one foot to the other and said, “Name’s Daniel. Friends call me Danny. What’s your name?”

  “Lee,” I replied, sticking with the first syllable of my name. “But I’m nobody’s friend.”

  He regarded me for a moment with a curious green gaze before turning to follow in the wulfan’s wake.

  My new powers included enhanced hearing, and I listened with interest as Danny followed Noah back to the group. Backup boy made a comment.

  “Guy’s fast,” he said. “Got the drop on us.”

  Noah grunted. “You misread him. Danny’s lucky he’s still breathing. Next time, be more careful.”

  “I wouldn’t have gone for him,” Danny sounded offended. “I was just going to pull out my knife and flick it around a bit. Make him nervous.”

  “Yeah, well, it backfired, didn’t it?” Noah’s tone remained level, but I saw Danny’s shoulders brace against the criticism. “Never pull a knife you don’t intend to use.”

  His face rigid, Danny nodded before he moved away to sit on a ragged blanket spread over the cold ground. Backup boy scowled at Noah, who ignored him. Eventually, he drifted back over to his friend and sat beside him.

  The exchange told me a few things. Primarily, that Noah didn’t have to use charisma to bind others to him. It was more an energy thing. Maybe a wulf thing?

  With my back to the concrete, it looked to most as though I slept, my head pillowed on my arms and my body curled in a fetal position. In reality, I watched the wulfan form the hub of an ever-revolving circle of homeless people, almost all young adults. His attitude never changed, but the gruffer he became, the more they gravitated to him. These young men were desperate to belong, and Noah offered them leadership.

  Had Jason questioned the man? Noah spoke well for someone who lived on the street—the man had some education. Although age was difficult to guess with wulfan, he looked to be in his prime, with a big, muscular frame too well fed for him to have been long on the streets. Surely the enforcer would have known of one of his own among the homeless in Winnipeg and tried to establish him as an informant. But if Noah was connected with the recruiters, he wouldn’t have cooperated with Jason’s efforts. Most likely, he would have provided the enforcer with pleasant, empty conversation and sent him on his way. Jason was too . . . enforcer. Like Chris, Garrett, Sam—his confident energy made him stand out. Subterfuge was not an enforcer’s natural bent.

  Unlike me.

  My instincts told me I’d found our link, so now I needed to convince Noah that I was nothing more than I appeared: a recent homeless introduction with a bad attitude.

  In the early hours of the morning, those closest to the diminishing fire hunched down for a few hours sleep, and a relative quiet fell over the colony of displaced people. I noticed Noah drift away from the group.

  The fire guttered and died, and the darkness closed in around me. I dozed off and on, too wound up and uncomfortable to sleep. I wasn’t surprised when my enhanced nose detected the distinct wulf scent a short time later, and I sensed Noah slinking up beneath the bridge, sticking to the densest shadows. He came within ten feet of me, sniffing, and he hovered there for what seemed like hours but was likely less than a minute. I fought to keep my breathing slow and even, hoping I’d kept my wulf buried by the smells of unwashed body and booze. Finally he drifted away, and I took a deep breath. If he’d guessed what I was, and he had connections to the mutant recruitments, I doubt he would have hesitated to finish me.

  I’d survived the opening salvos. I could only hope it would lead me where I needed to go.

  * * *

  The homeless dispersed with the dawn, moving off in search of food and other sustenance. I’d returned my nose to normal overnight, and now, with my head pillowed in my arms, I made the minor adjustments to it again, using my fingers to trace the contours until I was sure it looked symmetrical. I didn’t want it to look too different from my regular nose, for I would, eventually, let the alteration lapse for good. Once I was satisfied, I waited, watching Noah get organized for his day. He left at about seven-thirty, surrounded by a large group of young men, heading back up Higgins Avenue. Danny held back and wandered over to me.

  “You going for breakfast?” he asked.

  I studied him. “Hopefully.”

  “It’s a bit of a hike, but Agape Table offers a great meal.”

  “It free?” I asked, rising stiffly to my feet. Nothing like concrete to make you feel a hundred years old.

  “They accept donations if you have it, but they’ll feed you anyway.”

  Backup boy came up behind him. “C’mon Danny,” the smaller man said, scanning me with a jaundiced eye.

  “This is Keith,” Danny said, gesturing to his friend.

  A hot breakfast sounded like heaven. I felt the pull of exhaustion in my bones, and even though the changes to my nose were minor, it was like having a leech attached, draining the life from me. On top of poor sleep, little food, and miles of wandering during the days, I had a renewed appreciation for the gaunt, lined faces that surrounded me.

  I scanned my memory. “Agape’s on Colony, isn’t it?”

  “Not anymore,” Danny said. “They’ve moved to Furby, north of Portage.”

  That was a bit of a hike, likely a half hour’s walk and well south of the usual homeless haunts, but what else did I have to do with my day? Cultivating Danny might get me where I needed to go.

  Keith seemed unimpressed as Danny swung into step beside me. We headed up Balmoral, following the heavy morning traffic into the city center. There wasn’t a lot of foot traffic along this route, although a group of three trailed us from the bridge, likely heading to the same place. As we walked past sleepy residential streets and businesses preparing for the day, we heard the young voices of kids playing in a schoolyard, and a gas station bustled with people filling up on their way to work—all part of a perfectly normal life that operated without input from, or attention to, those who moved on the fringes.

  Balmoral, which had started out as Salter, became Isabel. We passed the bright-red auto parts store and a jeweler’s before crossing Notre Dame. After that, the road narrowed, and small houses hugged the sidewalk, bordered with fencing in variable states of repair. All the way, Danny made small talk while Keith kept his eyes on the pavement, occasionally shooting me a hostile look through stringy brown hair.

  “So, have you been in Winnipeg long?” Danny asked.

  “Lived here years ago. Just came back.”

  “Winnipeg has a great support network for living on the street.” He made it sound like a viable option to the good life.
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  “Helps that the winters are lethal without shelter,” I pointed out.

  “Was it as cold in your last place?”

  “Nope. But I couldn’t stay.”

  “Why not?” shot Keith from the corner slot.

  “He doesn’t have to tell us that,” admonished Danny.

  “No biggie. Crap happened. I couldn’t stay.”

  Danny hesitated, as though measuring what I’d said, and what I hadn’t. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Been there.”

  “How long have you known Noah?” I asked.

  “Why?” Keith bristled. I was growing tired of Keith, and he’d only spoken three times.

  “He seems kinda intense,” I said.

  “We hooked up with him about three months ago. He moved in from Calgary. Before he came, we avoided the Salter Street Bridge. It was a scary place.” Danny shrugged. “Noah moved in there, and the thugs—they kinda vanished.”

  I almost snorted. A few wulfy visits in the darkness had that effect on people, thugs or not. “He has a certain presence to him. I’ve noticed.”

  Danny nodded. He seemed to consider responding but looked away instead. “Let’s turn here,” he said, taking us onto Sargent Avenue. “It’s a nicer walk.”

  “You guys been in Winnipeg long?” I asked, shifting the topic off Noah. I didn’t want to raise any suspicions.

  “All my life,” Danny replied. “Keith too.”

  The smaller man said nothing, staring at the pavement.

  “Spent some time in juvie. That’s where I met Keith.”

  My eyebrows rose. Danny didn’t seem the type to end up in juvie, nor did he possess the usual juvie-resident attitude. Keith, on the other hand . . .