Of Wolves, Ravens, and Writing Desks by Zachary A. Pieper - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

What are you fighting for?

When you sign up to The Cages, they don’t tell ya about the smell. Nor do they bother to mention how cramped the passageways are. They can’t even be bothered to clean the old guts off the floor apparently. But as long as the money is real, I guess none of it matters.

“Neeeeeext up!” the flamboyant announcer begins, “you know him as the trouble of the town, the lycan who looooves fightin, Razor-Tooth!”

Razor… I hate that dick.

“And his opponent, new to the Cages, but with a lot to prove! Pretty-MAAAAC!”

Oh that’s just fucked up, Mac isn’t gonna last one minute.

I can’t see past my own wrought-iron gate, but I can hear theirs lifting up, opening their passageways into the arena. The sounds of the crowd echo through these old, gore smeared brick passages. They say this place used to be a sewer. Makes sense then, that trash like Razor comes here to fight.

Lycanos, what am I even doing here…

Suddenly something heavy slams again my gate, the metallic clang echoes through the darkness. “Ooooh! I don’t think Mac’s getting up from that.”

“I knew it,” I mutter to myself.

“And now! The warmup before the final fight of the night! You know him as the meanest son’ova’bitch from north Wilde-Towne, the cold hearted, the vicious! Black! RIIIIIDDDDEEEERRR!!!”

I smirk to myself as I stand, if only they knew.

“And his opponent, another veteran of The Cages, a man who accepts no nickname! Riben Waytinn!” Damn, Riben is a tough nut to crack. I’ve seen him fight. Its not usually pretty for the other guy.

The wrought-iron begins to scream as its old chains pull it up, and light breaks into the filth of my tunnel. The audience roars in anticipation. I crack my neck, and begin to change.

“Get him up on the table,” Doc Grey orders the enforcer who just carried me into the med-room after the fight. The enforcer basically drags me over, my feet aren’t workin’ so good right now.

“Think you got enough glass in ya this time?” Doc asks.

“Enough for a lifetime I reckon,” I say as I sit on the edge of the table, light headed, and sore all over.

“Stupid fuckin idiots,” Doc says as he begins pulling glass out, depositing each shard, large and small, into a waiting bucket, just as full of blood as it is glass.

“Hey, this idiot just won five-thousand blood marks,” I inform him.

“And you’re telling me the money is worth your life?” He says, never taking his eyes off of, or ceasing his work.

I stare up at the dim, eerily blinking florescent lighting, “My life ain’t worth that much,” I say matter of factly.

“Oh yea? Wonder what Ekkert would say about that,” Doc says.

I look down and give him a hard stare, “I told you not to mention his name around here.”

Doc stares back at me for a moment, his face impassive, before returning to his work.

I decide to let it go at the stiff reminder, and return to glaring absently at the faulty light. Mind begins to wander though, “Riben gonna make it?”

Doc glances up at me, clears his throat, “Sherry is patching him up, if anyone can save him, it’s her.”

“Ya know us fighters call her The Cage’s best killer.”

“Yup, I’m aware, and so is she, by the way,” He yanks a chunk of glass from under my arm, I yelp in surprised pain, “Sorry, hand slipped,” he says sarcastically, looking me in the eyes.

I almost fire off at the mouth, but if he calls the enforcer in here, they kick me out without finishing my patch job, and they might take my prize money on top of it. So, I settle on; “Yeah, sure Doc.”

I pull on my jacket as I climb the steps out of the sub-terrain passages that make up The Cages, careful not to rip out any of my one-hundred and fifty nine stitches. The black leather gleams in the pale-silver moonlight that breaks through the spotty cloud cover. My shirt was destroyed in the fight, so I tossed it. Not that I need it, the humid summer air is bordering on swelter, even though it’s the middle of the night. I start walking down the block, and notice the streets are pretty empty for this part of town, at this time of night. Must be my lucky day. I catch my reflection in a shop window, in between the tangle of thick flowering vines hanging over it. My black hair is matted with sweat, and glistening in the moonlight. My dark brown eyes don’t even show up in this lightning, all you see is the whites. “ya know for a guy who just got chewed half to death, I don’t look to bad,” I grin as I start my stroll again.

Here in south Wilde-Towne, they let the vines and bushes and trees go a little wilder than we do up north. But I can’t say I blame em’, not like there’s any real reason not to. My bike is just around this corner, I turn, and come to find Razor lounging against a wall, my bike just a few dozen feet past him.

“Heya pal,” he grins at me, his jaw still stained red with Mac’s blood.”

“We aren’t pals, Razor, what do you want?”

He jerks off the ivy-covered brick wall he was leaning on, his red hair hanging down over his green eyes, his bulky tall frame slightly overshadowing my own lither physique. “Now how many times I gotta tell you to stop using my arena name, old friends shouldn’t call each-other by their Cage names, right Willy?”

“No one calls me that anymore, and you aren’t the boy I used to pull pranks with in The Crate,” I say unamused.

“Now that just hurts Willy,” He feigns offense.

I’m not having it, “What do you want, Razor?”

“Always cutting to the chase this guy,” He strolls on up to me, until he’s just outside arms reach. “Got another big job in T-C, this one could be the mother load,” he smiles subtly.

“Told ya, not interested in ever stepping foot in TenaCentralis, again” I say the name with a mocking accent, “I’ve had enough of those fucking blood suckers for a lifetime.”

“Ahh, what’s wrong Willy? Scared of another little scratch?!” He chuckles, itching his neck where my own scar is.

“Fuck off, Razor,” I say before beginning to stomp past him.

He grabs my shoulder as I pass him, “We’re gonna meet at the abandoned kennel in east town, just like last time, in thirty days. If ya change your mind.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I shrug his blood-stained hand off my shoulder, and walk to my bike. I throw a leg over, insert my key and type in the security code, before slamming the kickstart, and spraying gravel and dust on my way outta there.

“See ya in a month Willy!” Razor calls out to me.

By Lycanos’s furry balls I hate that guy.

My Lycan-X17, Lucy, leaves a billowing cloud of dust behind me as I tear ass out of South Town. The roads are a bit bumpy here do to all the plant overgrowth, but I know them well from coming down here on business so often. I take a right, and I cruise into the opening to the underground roads, known only as the ‘X-way’ due to their shape. One road going east/west, another going north/south. And they meet in the middle. One giant underground X. Most of the lights down here were busted out ages ago, so if your gonna travel down here, you need night vision, or high-power headlights.

As I swerve to dodge random debris, or the occasional carcass, I can’t help but think about Razors offer. A whole month away? Razor never puts that kind of planning into anything. Someone else is calling the shots. Wonder who he’s fallen in with now.

Oh well, not my problem.

About ten minutes of tunnel, and I remerge back into fresh air and moonshine. Man, I could use a drink, hopefully Uncle E is asleep and I can raid the bar a bit.

North town lycans seem to take a little more pride in keeping the place looking decent. No random bushes in the roads. Trees get pruned. And it doesn’t stop the prey animals from coming in at all. Kind of makes ya wonder whether south towners are just lazy, of if there’s some actual reason. Can’t say I’ve ever asked any.

The stores, factories, and houses pass in a blur as I cruise closer and closer to Uncle E’s bar. A few blocks away, I kill the engine, and hop off to walk her in. Can’t wait till I get that new fusion motor installed. She’ll be silent as the grave then.

I roll up to the pub, in all of its beaten down, ramshackle, home-sweet-home glory. The sign mounted above the door reads: “Chan eil gèidh ann an Èirinn.” But no one knows what it means, and Ekkert won’t tell anyone, so people just call it Ekkert’s place.

I roll my bike into the covered cage out front and lock it up. Before climbing the handful of stairs up onto the pubs front deck. The second and third floor loom over me, but despite their tarnished and beaten down appearance, I feel nothing but the welcoming sensation of finally being home.

I walk in, all the lights are off, the tables and bar have been cleaned. Looks like I lucked out and Ekkert went to sleep already, I start stepping forward, “nice of ya to make it boyo,” ahh fuck.

I turn to the back right corner, that was hidden from my sight by the opened door, where Ekkert relaxes in the dark with his jug of whiskey. He wears a pair of denim overalls and nothing else. His red hair is shot through with grays, same as his robust but well trimmed beard. And as always, his blind right eye with its accompanying scar from his nose to his temple, glares at me with its whited out menace, far more eerie and unsettling than his remaining eye, the dark green iris of which is mostly hidden by a sleepily drooped eyelid.

“Evening Uncle E, hows it going?”

“Oh I’m doin’ just fine, just sitting her nursing the last of that good batch of whiskey from last year. How are you doin’?”

“Oh ya know, I’m good…” I say, already knowing where this is headed, but having not a damn clue how to avoid it.

“Where wer’ ya tonight boyo?”

Sigh, and that’s when the fight started…

“I was at The Cages,” I say plainly.

“Oh that’s dandy, at least now yer not lyin to me no more. I suppose I should thank me lucky stars for that at least,”

“Uncle E, I’m tired, I haven’t eaten, can we do this in the morning?”

“We’ll do this now, less you want ta fill your ass full of more glass than that filthy arena.”

“Okay, fine then…” I say as I turn and begin walking to the bar, Uncle E follows me over, his steps falling heavily on the old worn-in hardwood floor. I go behind the bar.

“I put yer plate in the fridge, shoulda pissed on it first I reckon,” Uncle E says with irritation as he sits at the bar, and watches me retrieve my food.

“Ahh gee, I love you too E,” I say, removing the foil and placing my steak and mashed potatoes in the toaster oven. Before turning to lean on the counter and meet his indignant stare.

“I don’t know why you insist on doing this boyo, you got yer job here, you got your project on the roof, why must ye go and fight?”

“I told you Uncle E, I need the money,” I remind him for what has got to be the thousandth time.

“Fer what boy! Ye have all ye need! Clothes on yer back, a roof, food and drink! I even gave ya Lucy! Which I never woulda done if I’d known ye’d be goin’ to south town to fight by the way!” He takes a break from yelling for a moment, and I see his eye dart to my stitched up chest, “and for Lycanos’ sake where’s yer shirt boyo?”

I smirk and shake my head, my dinner dings, and I pull it out. “Destroyed it in the fight,” I inform him before a bite of steak.

Ekkert pulls his jug from the seat next to him, slams it on the counter, pulls the cork, a satisfying pop sound, then takes a hearty pull. Before slamming it back down. “I’m goin’ to bed, teh the Abyss wit’cha…” he gets up and goes stomping up the stairs to his room, “and use some of that prize money to buy a decent fuckin’ shirt!” he shouts down, before slamming the door to his room shut.

“Love you too Uncle E,” I call with a smirk on my face. What would I do without that drunken codger?

I finish up my steak N’ taters, which is delicious as usual, clean my dishes, liberate a couple of bottles of mead from the fridge, and head over to the ol’ pinball machine.

The backlit board of the old machine proudly dubs the machine ‘7th heaven pinball!’ The games female mascot with her long black hair smiles at me warmly. To bad the actual game hasn’t worked since I was a kid. I affectionately tap the old scratched up glass, and reach underneath with my other hand. A quick pull of the breaker, and the elevator activates. With a small dropping lurch, the floor underneath me begins to lower me into the pubs hidden basement, where I keep my stuff. Sure I could use the stairs behind the building, but then I’d have to go all the way outside and around back. Ekkert says I use the elevator cause I’m lazy, I say I do it to save my valuable time.

I pop one of the tops off my mead bottle with my fangs, and start taking well earned pulls. Nothing beats Ekkert’s mead let me tell ya. I set my bottles down on my work table, shrug off my jacket, and reclaim my open bottle, before I head over to the work bench, where my current pet project is.

“Lucy is gonna go like a shooting star when I install this thing,” I say as I begin working on the black-market fusion engine.

(Chapter 1 Of Wolves, Ravens, and Writing Desks by Zachary A. Pieper - Link to full novel in the bio.)