The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) (4 page)

Gutierrez, however, was spooked. Without Hitchens and Cole, he needed a senior officer to lead him through this. "Where's your weapon, rookie?"

"What?" he said, confused by the question. "Right here." Gutierrez pointed at the gun holstered to his waist.

"Well get that firearm into your hand and cover my back!"

Diego stopped him as they took a step to the door. "Maxim, I said I would guarantee your safety. I can only do that if you stay here with me!"

Gutierrez stared at the prisoner with uncertain eyes and looked to Maxim.

"I have an officer up there, Diego."

"Then at least uncuff me. Let me go up there with you. I can help."

The rookie ran his eyes between both men. He had a skeptical expression but not one of disapproval.

Maxim, however, knew that winging things in these situations got people hurt or killed. There was a right way and a wrong way to do things, and he needed to set the example if no one else would.

"That's not happening."

The detective shoved Gutierrez out of the interrogation room with him, slammed the door shut, and locked Diego de la Torre in with the company of a table, two plastic chairs, and a video camera.

Upstairs, a quick series of pistol discharges rang out.

The two policemen sprinted through the main office. Seeing no other officers in sight, they continued up the stairs to the clinic. Maxim took the lead, only slowing near the top of the steps, pointing his gun forward towards the double doors. The rookie behind him did as he had been trained and stayed a few steps back on the opposite wall, occasionally making sure no one was behind them.

"Sir, if we get through this, I swear I'll shave my face!" Gutierrez shook his head nervously. "I really don't want to die with this stupid gringo mustache!"

At the threshold of the clinic, Maxim surveyed the scene and slowly advanced. The light in the hallway was nearly blinding after emerging from the duskiness below. The reception desk was still empty, and Kent's chair, once leaning against the wall supporting the officer, was lying on its side in the same spot. Next to it on the floor was his handheld device, still playing a chiptune.

He couldn't see anything else, but Maxim heard coarse breathing from within the hospital room.

The detective signaled Gutierrez to stop and inched to the left side of the hallway, opposite the open door. Maxim stepped to the left once, then again, and again until the innards of the bedroom were revealed to him.

It was dark inside but there was enough ambient light to see. Three of the beds had been thrown around the room. The two that had held the prisoners were bent in haphazard twists and had their aluminum bars broken off. The clay table lamp was shattered, its pieces strewn about the floor, and Maxim noticed crumbled pieces of plaster casts interspersed with the debris.

Kent was in the far corner, sitting against the wall, holding his neck and spitting out ragged breaths. Renee, the clinic nurse, was also present, kneeling down, attending to his wound.

Above the two of them, what was left of the glass in the window framed a jagged portrait of bent wire and open air. Both prisoners were gone.

"Not possible," hissed Maxim in a state of bewilderment. He stepped forward with his weapon raised and heard the crunch of clay under his feet until he reached the window. The gap in the ripped wire mesh was wide enough to afford egress to the prisoners.

The concrete plaza in front of the building was a twenty foot drop below. From there it was only a short distance to the street. One of the faux-antique light posts made of plastic resin had been snapped in half; its illuminated dome, still lit, rested on the sidewalk. Further yet, lying aflutter in the middle of the wide road, was a hospital gown.

Maxim projected a path past the well-lit town square and jerky movement caught his eye. Racing up the cross street in the distant darkness, he saw two large blurs retreat behind a building. Then the small town of Sanctuary, partially illuminated by the elemental light of the full moon, returned to its normal lull.

Maxim cursed to himself as he turned away, still incredulous at what had just occurred. He had seen it with his own eyes. How was that possible?

Kent spoke up, suddenly forcing the detective to return to the present moment. "I got some shots in them, sir." He sounded weak.

Maxim put his free hand up, motioning for silence from the wounded officer. "Don't strain yourself. Is he going to be okay, Renee?"

The nurse was strangely cool considering the crimson on her hands. "I'll need to call the doctor back for stitches but it looks minor."

Relief swept over Maxim as he allowed himself to breathe out. He holstered his weapon and nodded at Gutierrez, who was standing in the doorway, to do the same. With his right hand, the detective leaned down and patted Kent on the shoulder. He was unsure of what to say. He had questions but now wasn't the time. Gutierrez pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed the doctor.

For a moment, the world around Maxim was frozen. It was a surreal experience as the truth dawned on him. He wasn't sure if Sanctuary felt larger or smaller, but somehow it seemed as if he was standing in the middle of a giant car crash. Then something tugged at him, reminding him that he was the only thing not in motion.

Suddenly the detective remembered Diego locked up downstairs and had a sinking feeling. Maxim broke out into a sprint and dashed by Gutierrez, past Kent's toppled chair, through the double doors, and down the steps.

After the recent commotion, all Maxim could think about was how empty the police station seemed by comparison. He rushed through the large office and into the back hallway, fumbling with his keys. The seconds ticked by in slow motion as the lock turned and Maxim sprung the interrogation room door open.

Not sure what to expect, he burst in, his hand resting on the butt of the pistol on his belt.

Diego de la Torre sat upright with a reserved stillness, wearing an amused expression on his face, his hands firmly secured to the table.

"Maxim. Good to see you are still alive."

The detective let out a nervous chortle, relieved that Diego was still in custody. "What the hell happened up there?"

The prisoner looked at Maxim with admonishment. "Really, what have we been talking about this last half hour?"

The detective's breaths still came quickly. As he waited to recover himself, he stared at Diego and envied his composure. "And what about you?" said the detective, exasperated.

"Well," he began nonchalantly, as if this were routine, "I told you I would give you proof of werewolves, and I also said that I would guarantee your safety. But most importantly," said Diego, a smile crossing his lips, "I made sure I wasn't anywhere near those two when they turned. In case you haven't picked up on it yet, we aren't on friendly terms."

Maxim could not ignore the man's smug satisfaction. But how could he be angry? Yes, he had been manipulated, but Diego's actions probably ended up saving both their lives.

Gutierrez walked up to the open door of the interrogation room, scratching the back of his head. "The doctor is on his way, and Kent looks like he'll be good."

Diego interjected. "If anyone has been bitten, make sure they get a full rabies vaccine regimen." Both officers looked at each other with furrowed brows.

"What is it you do exactly, Diego?" asked the detective. "Are you chasing these wolves then?" The prisoner sat silently as he pondered the questions. "Did you stab that man?"

"Why, Detective Dwyer, I was not involved in that incident in any way." Diego, mixing his accent with a hint of playful wit, continued. "I'd read that biking through these lush woods was a majestic experience, and after a long day of exploration, I figured I would stop at a dive bar and meet some of the local color."

The prisoner stared deadpan at the two officers. Maxim knew what was happening. He had seen this before. Without the other two prisoners to question, Diego's account of victimhood would be unchallenged. What's more, with the other bikers actually having attacked Kent and escaping police custody, that scenario even appeared likely. If Diego's records came back verifying that he didn't live in Sanctuary, and without proof of him having committed any crimes, he would likely be set loose without charges.

The thing was, Maxim wasn't sure if that bothered him anymore. He now knew that the rumors about the werewolves had some foundation. He had proof the Seventh Sons were dangerous. It was hard to fault Diego if he had somehow drawn their ire. The man would need to spend the night here, probably, but would almost surely be released in the morning.

Diego de la Torre was a free man, and he knew it.

"Maxim, when can I pick up my bike?"

The detective's left hand cupped his temples as he tried to knead away the stress.

"Just tell me this first. The man that died..." The detective was going to ask a question, but he got tripped up by the phrasing. What could he ask that Diego would actually answer truthfully?

"He was one of them," the prisoner jumped in with, seeming to actually confide in the officers. "And very dangerous."

Without removing his hand from his face, Maxim closed his eyes. "Get him out of here, Gutierrez."

As the prisoner was unlocked from the table and shuffled out, Detective Maxim Dwyer took a few extra moments to compose himself. How could he have been so blind? But the reflection of light on his wedding band energized him with renewed purpose. There was more going on in Sanctuary than he had allowed himself to acknowledge and it had taken a stranger to show that to him.

With a calloused sigh that indicated the weight of the work ahead, Maxim reached over to the video camera and hit the stop button. This one would get erased.

 

 

 

 

 

Two days ago, Diego de la Torre had killed a man. The death hadn't been part of the plan, but in retrospect, that had been primarily due to the fact that there had been no plan at all. Sometimes, the biker reasoned, when all sensible avenues have been exhausted, risk was the only remaining recourse. At least, that was his justification as he returned to the scene of the crime.

Sycamore Lodge stood boldly against the relentless Arizona sun. The isolated roadhouse was an old fashioned mix of stone and wood and belligerence, the kind of place where nobody had any upstanding business. Near enough to fall within Sanctuary town limits yet deep enough in the Sycamore woods to retain its wild identity, the bar attracted a diverse population of outsiders. As such, it had become a popular haunt for the local motorcycle gang.

The biker pressed his gloved hand against the door and took a breath. Last time he was here, that night, a raucous crowd had filled the patio and the doors had been kept open for easy passage and a cool breeze. Tempers, however, had remained high. Perhaps now, at this early time of day, the heat would suppress the more vile nature of the bar's occupants.

Diego was wearing his full leathers now. His heavy black jacket was armored with inner metal plates, and he had steel-toe long boots with padded knees under his black leather pants. Everything he wore was a dark, matte shade of black that purposefully absorbed all traces of light. Running along the right side of the outfit were heavy scuffs from when he had slid off his bike. Diego grimaced as he pushed open the heavy door. After being released from police custody, it had taken him all of yesterday to sleep the soreness off. But that had been time enough.

The daylight had trouble penetrating indoors despite the large windows lining the wall. Diego waited for his eyes to adjust to his dim surroundings after pulling off his sunglasses. They were cheap and plastic, just bought this morning to replace the ones he had smashed in the accident. If only all mistakes were so easily corrected.

Diego squinted his black eyes and Sycamore Lodge fell into focus. The main room had a long bar and wooden cocktail tables and cushioned chairs. Antler sconces emanated red light and cast shadows like fingers reaching out of hell. The raised wood floor rung hollow under Diego's heavy boots and seemed to interrupt the quiet murmur of the patrons.

Good, he thought, only a few tables of guests, and no one at the bar. Diego released the door to take off his gloves and it slammed shut behind him.

The right side of the establishment had a step down to an inlaid stone floor. As with the patio, the tread of heavy feet had worn down any finish that may have once existed, and the floor held the look of grit that was inherent in the desert. This alcove culminated with an empty stage that was really nothing more than a raised platform. Live music would surely return with the dusk, but for now the absence of activity was welcome.

A darkened stain was still visible on the stones where Diego had stabbed the man. According to police, the victim had managed to leave the roadhouse and die off-premises, but that didn't change that the act had happened here, and while nobody who frequented this building would dare tell the police what they saw, the few who knew what happened would certainly hold Diego personally accountable.

The biker didn't know much about the dead man. He had been massive, threatening, and drunk. He was also a werewolf.

Werewolves were much stronger than normal people, even in human form. A fist fight could be deadly if the wolf wasn't controlling itself. Entering this situation without a weapon would have been stupid, but the best strategy involved only talk. Besides, Diego liked to think that he had a way with words.

The biker stood in place as his eyes swept across everyone in the bar. Brown glasses, pink lipstick, jean shorts, baseball cap—he needed to be careful since any number of them could be wolves, even the pretty girl bartending. It was much easier to detect werewolves in the hours before they turned, but the full moon, along with first impressions, had already passed.

His sister's words invaded his thoughts and brushed away his caution. Angelica was only twenty-two. At five years his junior, Diego had always taken responsibility for keeping her safe. She didn't generally like his meddling, but they came up in a bad neighborhood and she often made even worse choices. And this last time, with this last guy, Diego had made the mistake of letting him take her away.

He brushed his wavy black hair back and put his sunglasses on his forehead. Diego's right hand reached to his left wrist and patted the leather jacket sleeve, feeling the silver knife strapped beneath. Then he stepped up to the bar.

Diego took the farthest stool to the left, trying to keep as few people behind him as possible.

She usually said it half-jokingly, even when she knew he had saved her ass. And Diego had tried. But somehow Angelica had finally gotten herself into real trouble.

 

"You're new in Sanctuary, ain't ya?"

Diego smelled cinnamon and looked up at the bartender. She had a milky complexion and long, dyed-red hair. She looked like a model with her high cheekbones and thin eyebrows. She wore bright blue jeans and a spiked black corset that clung tightly to her big hips and accentuated her breasts. Topping off her wardrobe were silk gloves running to her elbows and a choke collar loosely hanging from her neck.

"I've only been here a few days," Diego answered, "but I feel that I've been productive with my time so far."

"Oh yeah?" she asked playfully. "What have you been up to?"

"Looking for a girl."

She leaned her chest forward as she rested her elbows on the bar. "Isn't everybody?" Diego raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "What are you having?" she asked.

"Do you have a spicy Bloody Mary mix?"

"Everything's spicy here." The bartender grabbed a tall glass and filled it with a scoopful of ice and rested it and the pitcher of tomato juice in front of her. Then she picked up a clear bottle from the shelf behind her. "How about a Grey Goose?"

Diego shook his head and pointed. "Just that."

The voluptuous woman traced Diego's finger to the shelf but appeared confused. "Just the well?"

"No, just the Bloody Mary mix."

She laughed for a second then stopped, realizing he wasn't joking. "It..." she started, jutting her chin to the side, "I don't think that's in the system."

The biker smiled. "That's fine. Just charge me for the full drink."

The cute girl shrugged in acquiescence. "I'm Melody, by the way." The bartender poured the mixer and placed the glass in front of Diego. "What's your name?"

He slightly bowed his head to the side. "Diego de la Torre, madam."

"De la Torre?" she asked, her eyes lighting up. "What is that, Mexican?"

"Not that I know of." Diego sipped his drink. It was a good, peppery mix.

"Oh, man of mystery, huh? That means this girl you're looking for ought to be quite mysterious herself."

Without seeing any other immediate leads, Diego figured the bartender was the best person to start with.

"Her name's Angelica. Curly black hair, skin darker than mine. She came out this way with a guy from the motorcycle gang."

Melody threw her head back and let out a robust laugh.

Diego wasn't sure what was funny. "The Seventh Sons, do you know them?"

The bartender kept laughing and waved her hands to excuse herself.

"It's not like that," Diego said. "She's my sister."

"No, no, I'm sorry," said Melody, finally taking a breath. "That's not it. Why, did you think I was jealous?"

The girl really was determined to flirt. This was one of the few times where that insistence frustrated him. "What am I missing?"

Melody pressed her body against the bar and touched her glove to his hand. He felt the tension leave him as he looked into her pale green eyes. Her face was the most serene and welcoming thing he could imagine. Then her gaze snapped to a fixed point behind him, and just for an instant, he recognized fear.

 

"You've got some balls coming back in here."

Diego turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Somehow, the exact man he was hoping to avoid was standing at the front door.

"Gaston."

The man, who was in his mid-twenties, was tall, towering above most, yet he still seemed to have a wide build. He was clean-shaven down to his shaped sideburns, but he wore his cropped hair in wild spikes in all directions, longer at the top to form a messy fauxhawk, dark brown with blond highlights. Gaston wore several earrings; they were liberally hung on both ears and ran up the side cartilage. His broad forehead and eyebrows cast his eyes in shadow, but Diego knew what they were hiding.

Gaston aggressively strutted towards him. "I owe you a little something for Steve."

Diego presumed that was the name of the man he had killed. "You know the rules, Gaston. If a dog bites, you have to put it down."

Melody stepped back away from the bar and watched the two intensely. The sound of chair legs abruptly sliding on wood pierced the air as an older couple near the opposite wall stood up to leave. Gaston looked back and forth at the crowd as if to decide what he could get away with. It didn't matter. In this bar, the presence of witnesses was not going to protect Diego. That was for sure.

"Listen," Diego said, putting his hand up as a sign of peace, "I'm not here to fight, just to talk. Just like last time."

"Last time you got a little stabby."

"Granted, but you weren't being very helpful either."

Gaston's eyes glanced at the bartender and then back to Diego. The tall man turned his head and spit on the floor in a show of contempt.

Diego couldn't resist rubbing his fur the wrong way. "Not unless my sister was in hell and you were directing me to her." What was it about the cocksure, tough guy image that so easily baited him?

The bartender giggled, fascinated more by the tension than the words. Gaston roared at her. "You could go to hell too, Melody!"

"Oh, real tough guy," she responded, toying with him. "Just because I have a collar doesn't mean I'm wearing a leash, you know."

Interesting, Diego thought. There's some history between these two.

"Gaston," he restarted, determined not to escalate things further, "if you had just told me where Angelica was instead of going to the back with that party girl, then I would've been out of your hair." Indeed, the biker gang seemed more interested in toying with him than telling him what he wanted to know. Diego had to make it clear that he was serious as many times as it took for them to listen.

"You think 'cause we hung out a few times with your sister back in Detroit that I owe you anything?" Gaston clapped dirt off his gloves dismissively. "I don't care what that bitch is up to. She was just along for the ride."

"That's bullshit! She fell in love with you. You practically kidnapped her."

Now it was Melody's turn to laugh at Diego. "Gaston?" she spat. "Ha! The only girls he can impress are the ones who use more hairspray than he does."

The man shoved strong fingers at the bartender. "Melody, one day you're gonna learn your place in this MC."

Diego turned to look at the girl in shock. So she was one of them, another Seventh Son. Melody just gave him a sideways wink as she addressed Gaston. "Yeah, yeah. You're all talk."

"Well maybe it's time to change that, huh?" Gaston took a step towards and turned his attention to Diego. "You wanna talk? Let's talk outside back."

Diego was still sitting on the stool with his back to the bar, facing Gaston. Again, just like last time, the man was being unreasonable. Diego watched as three truckers shuffled out of the lodge. The witnesses were fast disappearing.

Diego shook his head. It didn't have to be this difficult. He looked at the red lights, the metalwork on the shelves, the animal heads on the walls, and sighed. "You know, Gaston, over the years I've discovered that there are really only two types of werewolves."

The tall man stood his ground and stared on. Diego heard Gaston's leather glove stretching as he balled his hand into a fist, eyes still in shadow.

"The first type," Diego continued, "are the loners. Some poor dude realizes he's different and either lives a long peaceful life as a hermit or goes wild and gets put down. You see that a lot."

Diego paused as he sipped more of his tomato juice. Melody and Gaston were a captive audience and idly waited for the rest.

"The second type of werewolf is more complicated. They decide to group up and live in a pack. They have others help watch their backs. These kinds of wolves usually withdraw and live amongst themselves. They know that they are stronger together. Harder to take down."

"You're damn right," said Gaston, exchanging a look with Melody. If Diego wasn't sure before, he was now. Not only was she in their gang, but she was one of them.

"But the thing about the pack, you see," said Diego, spinning the ice in his glass, "is that it exists to protect the whole. Just like that loner can step out of line, so can the pack member."

Gaston smiled. Behind him, an older woman in a cowboy hat approached.

"Except, usually," said Diego, finishing his point, "when a pack problem is corrected, it happens from within."

Gaston stood tall in silence for a moment. Melody let out a small gasp. Diego leaned to the side to get a better view of the woman watching. And that's when Gaston struck.

A right fist hurled towards Diego's face. He put his hand up to block the shot. The blow slammed Diego's arm into his own head, and he couldn't counter the overwhelming strength of the werewolf. He was knocked off the seat and landed hard on his back. A cocktail glass shattered inches from his face.