oceancove

Who: Amelia Drake & Hugh Cadigan.
What: A promised, grown up dinner.
Where: Bocelli's Italian restaurant.
When: Evening.
Rating: TBD

Amelia had been kicked out of her own shop by Keita. The kitsune, who apparently was fed up with her pacing and the constant need to fix and adjust things had taken her shop keys and promised to close up and complete the nightly drop. Earlier in the day she had contacted Hugh, dropping into the conversation the dinner they had agreed on before he left the Cove. She hadn't expected the quick turn about and rapid fire discussion, and the decision to go out later that evening. The rest of the day, she was constantly in motion, and had made enough cupcakes and sweets to keep the shop open for the next six days without needing to bake anything. Only slightly worried about how she was going to unload the extra pastries on unsuspecting people, she left the shop, lead by a firm hand on her elbow, as Keita chattered about 'having a good time', and 'not worrying about opening the next morning'.

It was mid afternoon when she arrived at home. Far too early to get dressed for an evening out, she opted on cleaning the entire house. And painting the kitchen, which only created more mess, and the issue of paint on her hands, and the fact that no matter how hard she scrubbed it wouldn't come off. Deciding to peel the paint from her fingers, she plopped down on the couch, lost to the lure of daytime television.

The sun had started to set, sending long shadows into her living room. She clicked off the television, showered, and spent far too long deciding on what to wear. Amelia gnawed at a thumbnail, stared at the contents of her closet before selecting a cream colored halter dress that floated away from the body--leaving her hair loose and in waves. It was casual enough not to put on airs, but at the same time nice enough that she looked like she spent hours getting ready. Which she had, in her own roundabout way. Low rise black pumps and a black clutch were snagged at the last moment, and it wasn't until she was behind the wheel of her SUV that she had forgotten the jewelry laid out on the bed. It would have been a distraction anyway. Nerves would have caused her to play with it all evening, and that wouldn't do.

She wasn't sure why she was so nervous. It wasn't a date. Two adults having dinner, in a grown up setting alone. Amelia stabbed at the button to unroll the window, a flush coming to her cheeks at the flashes of the evening they had time they had before it was interrupted. She could almost hear Eamon's amusement.

It sounded like a date, the more she thought about it. Telling herself that it didn't matter, she pulled into a parking spot and turned the car off. The night was mild, streets quiet, despite it being early. She waited outside the restaurant, a little early.

Who: Eamon Flood, Hugh Cadigan, & Connor Macrae
What: Competitive penis measuring Training
Where: Eamon's Yard
When: Late afternoon
Rating: TBD

Rumor had it that Eamon Flood was building an army. Or possibly a pit fighting ring. Or an obstacle course. Or, some rather broad-minded folks suggested, all three. The fourth rumor was, as it happened, rather closer to the truth. In the weeks since Amelia’s attack Eamon, along with several other pack wolves, had been busy transforming the Second’s backyard into physical training center for non-humans. Deep sparring pits had been dug and staked, weights and complicated looking physical fitness machinery (some still bearing price tags) had been found in quarters best not mentioned, and attack dummies had been sewn and stuffed. A brick barbeque that could be best summed up as ‘immense’ had been added alongside a two double-wide refrigerators that were continually restocked with beef and beer (mostly Newcastle’s new ‘Werewolf Ale,’ which the pack found hysterical despite the berry flavor). Power came from a half dozen surge protectors that were themselves hooked onto long extension cords that terminated not in Eamon’s home but, rather, in the woods rather near to where one of the city generators squatted. Thus far the city had yet to investigate reports of possible electrical use malfeasance—something about having to wade through a pack of werewolves first seemed to put them off.

 

In recent days the pits and weight machines had begun to fill with trusted werewolves. Some came on their own, others came at the command of their Second. It had taken only a day or two to become a deafening affair marked by roars and snarls and clangs by day and shouts and song at night. The summons sent to Hugh Cadigan had initially run ‘Your sheep-shagging arse here, now’ but the runner who had delivered it had had the good sense to adjust the language to something rather more polite. Hugh wasn’t pack, Eamon certainly wouldn’t consider him anything close to it until he dropped his foreign loyalties, but he was, he knew, a reliable set of claws and jaws should Amelia come under attack again. He wanted the Welshman training with his wolves. He wanted to know, too, what the sheep-shagger thought of the training system currently in place. Outside eyes bought fresh perspective, no matter what sort of man they were attached to.

 

Now Eamon paced between pits, watching the combatants below him thrash and scramble. To his left was an evenly matched pair of heavyset wolves, each trying to use their own weight to unsteady their opponent. Other wolves, unchanged, sat watching as they received a lecture on the technique being demonstrated and the best ways to counter it should they ever come across it in combat. To right the match was far less fair. Connor, wolf form and manacled so he could hardly move, was beset by eight of his pack mates. The pup was learning to control his shifts better under duress, but his ability to shift at will from wolf to man was stalled. Blood, noise, and the threat of danger seemed to lock the wolf in and the man out. The wolves in the pit were trying to break him of the habit as one breaks a kicking horse with a hobble. Ahead, on an embankment rather than a pit, pairs of werewolves in their bipedal form sparred as well. A werewolf was always stronger on all fours but there were situations wherein a change might not always be possible or best. Later there would be training against non-werewolf bipeds. Eamon was not taking anything to chance.

Who: Amelia Drake, Hugh Cadigan
When: Evening
Where: Amelia's council office.
What: A reunion of sorts (round two.)
Rating:
Status: Ongoing and in progress.


The head of security at the council offices was a frail fey who everyone called Chuck. The only reason Amelia was able to be at her office without an entourage of eight or more wolves was because of Chuck-- and his hands of power. Amelia had seen the frail figure shatter, giving way to something darkly beautiful and utterly destructive. She nor Chuck ever spoke of the times she saw him use his abilities, and she didn't like to think on those times too often. They tended to bring nightmares. The offices were quiet, only a few representatives worked into the evening. She had stopped by Henry's office, to find that he hadn't arrived, or had already left. It was late enough that the vampire could move around comfortably.

Amelia preferred the quiet. She hadn't been in the offices since she had healed, and she liked that she could hear if someone approached. Someone- she had a hunch Chuck, had also installed a video surveillance system in her office and she could watch who wandered the halls. When she had taken her place on the council, she had gutted the office, fashioning it more to her taste. This office too, had dark woods, deeper colors and over-sized furniture. Decidedly masculine, though there were slight feminine touches.

She had been in the office for a few hours, gotten half way through old request forms when there was a knock at the door. Keigo Casimie, one of the humans who worked with the council and often ran the meetings let himself in. Work was set aside for polite conversation and the assurance that she would in fact be at the next meeting, and no they didn't have to worry about Eamon or Rammsteiner sitting in her stead. (Though, she figured they didn't want either of the wolves there for very different reasons.)

Nearly forty-five minutes later, and four ever present clove cigarettes, Casimie reached across her desk, shook her hand and took his leave. She could almost taste his want to ask what happened to Lida's body, or if she knew anything more than the small amount of information they had sated the press with.

She came across the file on Hugh that McKinnon's office had brought by. With a grin, she settled in to flip through it. Naturally, her thoughts turned to the other wolf, the abrupt call back to Budapest and her. Amelia's lip curled on reflex, annoyed at how Hugh was pulled back and forth. She wanted to keep a close eye on Hugh, her reasoning more personal than she'd like to admit.

Who: Amelia Drake, Hugh Cadigan
When: Evening.
Where: Amelia's home.
What: Welcome to another round of will they-won't they and hurry up and say something already. In all honesty? Wine, two friends and memories.
Rating: Pg-13
Status: Complete.

The day had remained clear, though windy. Amelia had opened a few of the windows allowing the wind to blow through the house, which to her, had started to smell like a hospital despite many people telling her otherwise. With supervision she had been allowed to go out on her deck, and she had spent a few hours watching the waves pound at the beach, and the few die hard beach combers walk back and forth scanning the dunes for hidden treasures.

She had allowed her mind to wander, a dangerous thing for anyone who had gone through something traumatic. Amelia, after a few days had started to brush off the severity of the attack. Her pack, her second, had done exactly what they should have done. She owed Eamon and Connor her life, a fact that had weighed heavily on her mind and conscious. She knew Eamon had done his job, but the fact that she still couldn't answer Connor's questions, or explain things to him wore on her. Even after calling her parents--something she had forbade everyone from doing, and explaining what had happened she still couldn't find the words to ask for help.

Amelia had left her bedroom, again taking up residence on the balcony. After a nap, and kicking most of the guard, save the one that had moved into the house next door, temporarily, she called Hugh. The phone rang, went to voice mail, words failing her once more. She hung up, leaned heavily against the railing on her balcony. She watched the surf for a few more moments, and sent him a text message.

Come over-- No politics. Just food, wine and conversation. ~A a coward's way out really, but really didn't care. She flipped the phone open once more, Just really want to talk to you. Amelia figured that would prove that she wasn't out for his blood, or to give him a headache. She got up, closed the sliding glass door and headed downstairs. The house was clean, thanks to one of the elder female wolves, who had not only cleaned, but cooked and did her laundry as Amelia protested from the couch. There was a box of cupcakes left on the kitchen table, Amelia took that, the bottle of wine from the last time Hugh was over, and two glasses and set up the living room.

Who: Thomas Fraser and Hugh Cadigan
When: A few days after the attack on Amelia
Where: The streets of the The Cove; Hugh's office
What: A reunion to rival Luke and Laura albeit with about ten times less unresolved sexual tension.
Rating: PG-13 for language (it's Fraser, there will be a cuss word every once and a while)

The motorbike pushed its way through the thoroughfare. It was pointless to own a bike of this nature in The Cove, considering everyone else who was worth their salt had a car, a driver, and a fucking barista on speed dial, but Fraser wouldn't deal with that very well. For all his technological advances, he still got an animalistic joy out of straddling a large machine, drunk on horsepower and adrenaline.

That reminds me, gotta call Morta-della.

Fraser smirked. He had talked to her yesterday during a Miezvilki conference call. Actually, he hadn't really gotten on the line, since he was kind of on a hideout at the moment from the rest of the group. He infiltrated the call on his Bluetooth, privatized the line between he and Satia, and kept her...occupied. Not for too long, just a few minutes. Enough to get her thinking about him for the rest of the meeting. He then released her to the conference call again and smirked the rest of the day.

But this wasn't a sexual favor he was performing (although give him a second and it could be). Calling her again was to let her know about the involvement of the Sanguine Corporation in the dealings at the Cove. Fraser didn't look at this as betraying William...even if he was British, he was a friend. It's just a way of keeping tabs on how big this thing was getting. He had told Baine about it too. And judging by the spate of attacks on lycans lately, this situation seemed to be getting very big. The Sanguine Corporation and the Order of the Eventide didn't get their hands dirty unless the level of concern was reaching unheard of defcons.

And since he had talked to the Goddess herself, might as well talk to her Hermes.

The bike whirred to a stop in front of the office building and Fraser leaped off his ride with a glee he only reserved for special occasions. He strode to the intercom and pressed the buzzer. "Council Office," came the clipped, crackling voice. Fraser bellowed into the phone, "I'm looking for Hugh Cadigan."

"Who shall I say is here for him?"

"Tell him it's Fraser."

A brief moment, then the door buzzed, allowing him entry. Fraser practically sashayed to the door of Hugh's office once he was inside, looking around him briefly and noting the onlooker's faces. "Never seen a Scotsman with good dental care?" he snarked, and knocked on the door. Summoning his best Britney Spears impersonation, he loudly proclaimed what he'd always wanted to say at someone's office door.

"It's Fraser, bitch."

Who: Hugh Cadigan and Amelia Drake
When: Not too long after Amelia's attack in Croswell Square
Where: The Cove General Hospital
What: After learning that she's been attacked, Amelia's knight in not-so-shining armor arrives at the hospital
Rating: PG (unless something goes horribly awry which, considering these two, is not out of the realm of possibility)
Status: In progress


Amelia's text message couldn't have come at a better time. Hugh had spent the better part of the morning in the company of Ian Rammsteiner, Cove pack gamma and -- if the decor of his home was anything to go by -- a walking example of the stereotype that the Germans had no sense of humour whatsoever. (The man made ice floes look cuddly.) But he was erudite and well-connected and there were a couple of times that Hugh could have sworn he even attempted a smile. His perspective on pack politics jived with some of the opinions Hugh was hearing at home, even though he could sense Rammsteiner was trying to put on a progressive face for the sake of the interview. Everyone knew that Rammsteiner was a traditionalist. It was one of the things that assured him a place in the middle of the pack. Well, that and his propensity to give long, extremely detailed history lessons; good god, that man could drone. He was halfway through a treatise on the increasing importance of recognizing an independent Croatia as it related to information technologies (Hugh had started the conversation with a compliment about Ian's Blackberry), when his own phone chimed from his pocket:

Need a favor. I was wondering if you'd be willing to help with the puppy. I'm stuck. Call either way. -Amelia

That was a hell of an innuendo, Hugh thought. And if it wasn't an innuendo, it was even more of a surprise -- Amelia Drake, asking him for a favor? The possibilities. He had already resolved to help, of course; had done so the second he'd read the text. But he spent the next twenty minutes half-listening to Rammsteiner pontificate, while he came up with at least twelve ways to respond to Amelia's request, all of them snarky. Snark was the least he could do. He was still waking up in the middle of the night, convinced Eamon was hiding in the bushes with an air horn.

By the time his phone actually rang he had constructed a pitch-perfect response. He had raised the phone to his ear, smirk so wide that it threatened to split his face. But instead of Amelia's rich and sultry alto, Hugh heard an Irishman's brogue, screams and whooping sirens. His stomach dropped through the floor. Rammsteiner was looking at him with either concern or contempt; the Bavarian's expressions were almost indistinguishable from each other.

"Amelia's been attacked," Hugh said.

"Oh dear. By whom?" Ian's voice was as smooth as a French tablecloth.

Hugh scooped his phone into his pocket and got to his feet, yanking his briefcase to his shoulder. "I don't know. That was Eamon. She's been --" his breath rolled around in his chest "-- I've got to go."

"Of course," Rammsteiner said, rising easily to his feet. "My god, I do hope she's all right. You will let me know, won't you? After you've seen her?" He accompanied Hugh to the door and administered a firm squeeze to his shoulder. "Please do. If anything happened to her, I don't know what we'd do. I really don't."

- - - - - -

Hugh called all three hospitals in the Cove before finally locating Amelia at Cove General, in the heart of the city. The on-duty nurse hadn't been able to give him specifics over the phone -- HIPAA policy existed, even among supernaturals -- but he'd learned that it was a particularly brutal attack. Amelia had survived. Her attacker had not. He parked (askew) in the porte-cochere outside of the main hospital entrance, blowing past a pregnant woman in a wheelchair and a group of schoolkids on a field trip. Every knock of his heart behind his ribcage was an injection of adrenaline. It surged through his fingers and behind his eyes, and left a sour taste in the back of his mouth. He practically charged the elevator when the doors opened. 'Rode the interminable agony of expectation to the fourth floor where a nurses' station and a floor roster directed him to a room down the hall.

The door was closed.

He put his hand on the handle. To his senses, the metal felt impossibly cold.

He pushed down, and stepped inside.

Who: Eamon Flood & Hugh Cadigan
What: Hugh and the Pack Second finally get a chance to 'chat.'
When: Sunday, May 1, very early morning
Where: Hugh Cadigan's home
Rating: Bwahaha!
Status: Complete

The call from Amelia had come in sometime after 11pm. At the time Eamon had been stretched out on his couch, eyes fixated on his television set. Most of the furnishings in Eamon's home were second hand; a motley collection of scraped and patched items that matched nothing else in their respective rooms and often nothing in the entirety of the house. The television, however, was new. It was also ridiculous in size, dominating the small living room with 65 inches of 1080p, 600Hz, high-def, 3D-capable goodness. A sound system that would shame most small city cinemas bristled out in three directions and the deep, wood shelves of the unit it stood on were stacked three-consoles deep with various video game platforms and their assorted paraphernalia. At the moment Eamon was playing Call of Duty: Black Ops. If Eamon had had neighbors they would have been able to hear the death screams of the virtually rendered Viet Cong three houses away without difficulty.

There was a reason Eamon didn't have neighbors.

When the handset to his landline trilled Eamon punched the pause button with a callused thumb, then snatched up the phone. His greeting was his standard "What?" but he said little after that; just a few 'uh-huh's, 'right's, and 'mhmm's. The entire conversation took less than two minutes. He hung up, switched off his X-Box, and got to work.

Eamon's wristwatch read 4:13 (am that is) by the time he considered himself ready. He stood square-shouldered on the asphalt outside Hugh Cadigan's new bungalow on Hugh's darkened street. With him stood 22 daisy-chained six-lamp industrial-grade floodlights and a home brew stand of wood and metal that racked up 18 individual air horns under a single start-lever. He also held a megaphone.

Eamon's hand hovered over the 'ON' switch to the lamps. For a brief moment he almost felt sorry for the foreign werewolf. Almost.

Hugh's street lit up like a midsummer noon, the sudden shift from night to day was accompanied by a blast of deafening, irritating sound that would have put the collective might of every single vuvuzela player in South Africa to shame. Bedroom lights popped on up and down the street, followed shortly by porch lights. When the first few front doors opened to reveal the silhouettes of Hugh's confused and angry neighbors, Eamon silenced the air-horns, lifted the megaphone, tabbed it on, and bellowed into it.

"OI SHEEP SHAGGER! I UNDERSTAND YOU WANT TO TALK!"

Then he leaned down hard on the air-horn start-lever and waved to the gathering, pajama-clad crowd.

Who: Hugh and Amelia
What: A working dinner
When: Saturday evening
Where: Amelia's place
Rating: PG
Status: Complete


There was a debris field on the beach when Hugh returned from his morning run.

He'd been making a valiant effort to stay in shape since coming to the Cove, the better part of his exercise regimen in Budapest being made up of running from one diplomatic liaison to another, and his proximity to the ocean opened up miles of jogging track in either direction. Storms had pushed in early this morning but by the time Hugh laced up his trainers the clouds had moved off and the sky had started to lighten until it was the colour of mother-of-pearl. He did three miles without stopping -- pretty good for the old wolf -- and doubled back, sneakers slapping against the damp dark sand. As he rounded a bend in the beach he looked up to see a crowd gathered around several piles of metal and fabric, stretching far into the distance. Drawing closer he'd heard a sharp pop! and a spurt of air, like a valve being released; beside him, a curtain of orange fabric started bellying up like a bon-bon.

Hot air balloons.

The twists of metal weren't wreckage at all, but aluminum frames for ballooning baskets; the people weren't stunned witnesses to disaster, they were part of the Cove Hot Air Balloon Enthusiasts Society, whose posted flyers around the downtown area had for weeks advertised their annual weekend balloon regatta. Hugh had dropped the hood of his sweatshirt and watched as balloonists in shorts and matching t-shirts (with their club's signature line "I GET HIGH" branded on the back) inflated and wrangled a dozen or more balloons, then took off in them, silhouetted against the clouds like colourful punctuation marks.

Hugh had always had soft spot for air travel. When he'd been young -- no more than eleven or twelve -- he'd gone with his father to Cardiff, where Messrs. de Rozier and Réveillon had exhibited their revolutionary ballon design, complete with a human passenger, to the delight of a standing-room-only crowd. It was remarkable to think that, less than two hundred and thirty years later, Hugh would be jetting around in a contraption that could take him from Cardiff to Miskolc in less than four hours.

He sat and watched the regatta for a while, clapping and whistling with the rest of the crowd whenever a new balloon was successfully launched. He had flight on his mind for the rest of the day.

When he arrived at Amelia's home later in the evening, promised bottle of wine tucked underneath his arm, he could see the balloons in the distance. They moved so slowly that they did not appear to be moving at all; only the matchstick pops of their ignition burners told you that there was real activity going on beneath the bubble. Hugh hoped to be able to follow their example.

This was business, after all.

He shifted the wine into the crux of his elbow and rapped on Amelia's door.

Who: Hugh Cadigan and Connor Macrae
What: “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.” - Charles Darwin
When: Tuesday, April 26, mid-afternoon
Where: Downtown in the Cove
Rating: PG, ostensibly. May change depending on the circumstances.
Status: Complete.


In the end, it was a throw pillow that broke the camel's back.

Hugh had been at the Hilton for almost a full week and, up to that point, he'd managed to stomach the décor. Through stoic self-determination he'd been able to endure the frothy cornices and Coriolis Effect carpets; he'd even survived the imperious looks he got from the cherubs painted on the ceiling above the bathtub (and was, in the process, reasonably assured of his own manhood). But when he'd looked at a beaded, braided throw pillow on Sunday night and thought, That wouldn't look half bad in my den, the trumpets of disquietude blared and Hugh knew he had to get the hell out of there or risk permanent whimsy.

They were letting houses down by the shore with rent figures that nearly mirrored what Audax was shelling out for single-night occupancy at the Hilton. Hugh spent the better part of an afternoon moving up and down the beach like the tide, checking out the selection of cabins, cottages, ramblers, and lodges. He knew he wouldn't be lucky enough to find anything like his flat back in Budapest, with its high and airy ceilings and commanding view of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, but the Americans were nothing if not practical, and Hugh soon found a beachfront bungalow that would suit his purposes. Pitching the idea to Maniel and his omnipresent employer had been an easier sell than he'd thought; in the wake of the recent murders they'd thought it might be advantageous for him to stay on in the Cove in a more longitudinal capacity. They'd used that exact phrasing. Roughly translated from Bureaucrat to English it meant, We don't know what the hell is going on either, so why don't you stick around and find out for us?

The bungalow was at least forty years old and when it rained -- as it was wont to do in Washington -- the water choked the gutters and backed up onto the roof, producing the most disconcerting groaning sound, as if the whole pile could come crashing down at any second. The wolf loved it. Here the air was pure, not processed. Centuries-old firs stood sentry along the footpath and shed their needles in thick blankets, which the wolf delighted in pushing his nose into. The ocean spray was sharp and playful; the waves slapped back for more, even when the wolf snapped at them with his teeth. Short of a White-Tailed Deer of North America Convention, the Northwest Coast was about as perfect a place as any for a lycan to be.

Hugh was in town with a laundry list of home repair essentials to buy. He could have hired a handyman (Audax had even offered to send their own interior decorator) but something about the bracing Pacific Ocean air invigorated his sense of personal craftsmanship. He'd fix those damn gutters and he'd do it by himself, dammit.

He slipped a pair of sunglasses up the slope of his nose and set out at a brisk walk up the sidewalk. Destination: the hardware store and water-rerouting glory.

Who: Amelia Drake, Hugh Cadigan
When: Evening. A few days after this
Where: Hugh's hotel room.
What: An apology- of sorts.
Rating: Pg
Status: Closed.


Spring had arrived at the Cove. The day was warm enough for Amelia to leave the front door of the shop open, enticing more people to come in and pick up a little something to snack on. On the gentle breeze the calls of gulls and terns could be heard, along with the pleasant scent of ocean air. Now, the sun was beginning to set, long shadows creeping along sidewalks and storefronts. Amelia rang out the last customer, locking up behind them. The kitchen was already cleaned, and it wouldn't take her long to clean the small cafe area.

Twenty minutes later, the eatery was sparkling clean, orders for the next day laid out on the counter, and the money for the day's takings tucked carefully inside a deposit envelope in her purse. She cast one last look into the kitchen, gaze landing on a brightly colored bundle. She had pulled it together on a whim, knowing that it wasn't a proper apology, but she'd be damned if she delivered a formal apology for the insinuation that she couldn't run a pack. Guilty conscious winning, she snatched up the box and left the shop, flipping the sign before she left.

After she had exploded at Hugh, she spent most of the evening out, and when she returned from the shop the next day he was gone. Amelia had checked with the B&B and found out that he wasn't staying there. Which left the other places he had mentioned. It had only taken one call, and a mild threat to find out that he was staying at the Hilton.

The hotel was one of the larger ones in the downtown shopping area. She was greeted cheerfully by a perky blonde behind the counter. Another mild threat, and she was given the number of Hugh's hotel room. The elevator jerked and whined as it climbed to the proper floor, Amelia again remembering why she preferred to take the stairs. Counting off the doors, she stood outside of the room, studying the number. Knowing she would have no explanation as to why she's standing outside a room, she raised her hand and knocked.

Who: Hugh Cadigan, Amelia Drake
When: Undetermined; certainly after the death of the pack alpha
Where: Seattle–Tacoma International Airport (and beyonnnnd!)
What: A reunion (of sorts)
Rating: PG
Status: Complete


They designed prison blocks with more imagination than the Prague-Ruzyně International Airport, Hugh decided. The enormous concrete barracks and control tower looked like something out of a gulag, rather than components of the Czech Republic's biggest hub for air travel. (The alternative being to rent a two-prop plane from a farmer in Prostějov, where the ratio of cows to humans was roughly 5:1.) Even so, Hugh had been grateful to get off the ground in what appeared to be a serviceable airplane, staffed with a competent flight crew, and an in-flight showing of Inception (comically dubbed into Slovak). Hugh unpacked his laptop when they leveled out at 23,000 feet. His computer, a Toshiba Qosmio G-35-AV660, was a little clunkier than he would have liked, but it had an extraordinary amount of memory and he could run encryption software alongside a game of Minesweeper if he so chose. While he waited for the machine to boot, he raised the shade on his window and looked out at the pillowing, piling clouds as they rolled past the window. Thunderheads glowed in the distance. Hugh wasn't afraid of flying, but he hoped those thunderclouds would stay far, far away.

He accessed his e-mail account from the mainframe and waited while his computer chewed through various lines of encryption. Finally, his inbox popped up on screen and registered one new e-mail:

To: cadiganh@audaxindustries.com
From: alenichevm@audaxindustries.com
Subject: FILE # 267G-61 [EYES ONLY]

Hugh had to chuckle. With all the bells, whistles and super secret handshakes his employer believed in, it was surprising that the message didn't come with its own self-destruct button. He typed in a secondary password and scanned the e-mail's contents. Details were limited and much of what they appeared to know was no more than pure speculation. Hugh knew how pack elders felt about speculation. Which is why they're sending me, he thought. He read through the rest of the e-mail and fired off a response to Maniel, the pack beta, who would be coordinating the information channels back in Budapest. He spent half an hour watching Leonardo Di Caprio run around with a bruised, beaten dog expression, then turned off the light above his seat and fell asleep to the sound of forced air being run through the ducts above his head.

They landed in Seattle a little after noon the following day. Hugh rubbed the sleep from his eyes and lumbered off the plane, collecting his suitcase from baggage claim. His phone was sorely in need of a charge, and he a shower. He was still wearing the suit he'd been in two days ago when Maniel had pulled him out of the conference. He splashed some cold water on his face in the men's room. 'Adjusted the powder blue tie at his throat. Standing elbow-to-elbow with the frequent flyers, Hugh imagined that he was just like them: off to Los Angeles, or maybe Chicago, making the rounds as a titan of industry, a family at home and a station wagon in the driveway. His phone buzzed weakly, delivering one last text message before the battery died:

WE SUSPECT TREACHERY WITHIN RANKS. PROCEED WITH ABSOLUTE CAUTION. - M.

Okay, so he wasn't quite like the rest of them.

He hauled his bag onto his shoulder and stepped out of the terminal onto the sidewalk, raising his arm for a taxi.