Aspen County

I sleep on a street corner, unwilling to swallow my pride and return to my Pack of traitors. They try calling out to me several times during the night, but I ignore their pleas to come back. Just like Louve ignores mine. I don't wake up until sometime in the afternoon due to severe sleep deprivation and jet lag. Finally, using the name of the cab company that the frazzled transportation clerk threw at me, I seek out my one chance at finding Louve.

It's a building in a seedy part of town, but I'm used to that type of environment, so I'm not very worried. Inside, flickering fluorescents are set into the ceiling. The walls are plain white with blue and green linoleum flooring leading to the chipped, wooden desk. Behind it, a 20-something year old brunette girl leans back in a swivel chair, clicking her gum and tapping away on her phone.

I take a deep, calming breath and clear my throat before speaking, calling her attention to me. She checks me out and shrugs. "Good morning," I force myself to say. "Two friends of mine arrived at the airport a few blocks away a couple of nights ago, and I was hoping you might be able to help me find out where they might have gone."

"How do you expect me to do that?" she demands glancing down at her phone which blinks and chimes as she receives a text.

"I don't know. Can't you look up where your cab drivers went two days ago? You should at least be able to do that."

"Even if I did, how do I know you're not dangerous or something. You could be looking for a target that escaped or something. I mean, sure you're hot, but you also look kinda dangerous. I mean, just look at the lines under your eyes and that messy hair."

"Look, ask your drivers or something. One of them was a guy, about 20. He's my height and muscle mass with auburn hair, green eyes, and pale skin. The other, his sister, has similar features and is fit but about six inches shorter than me or so. They're French. Did any of the drivers mention anything?"

"Look, I took off that day—I was at a wedding for my sister. And even if I was here I don't talk to them. They just get the keys to their cars and go on their way."

I can feel my fuse beginning to run short. "How can you keep absolutely no tabs on any of your drivers?" I demand.

"Don't yell at me; it’s not my fault! Why don't you keep track of your 'friends?'"

I take a deep breath and let the air out through my teeth. As I prepare to make another retort, a middle-aged man hurries in. "You're late, Tim," the girl announces monotonously.

"I know, I'm sorry," he mutters sheepishly in a New Yorker accent.

"You know what the old man said—you got three more times before you—"

"—get kicked to the curb, I know."

"Yeah, you know, well now you've got one more time, so I suggest you get your act together before he calls you in again."

"I know. I better be on my way."

The girl glances at me before looking back at Tim. She huffs. "By the way, you wouldn't happen to have heard about a couple of red-heads from France from any of the other drivers, would you?" the girl asks, sounding bored and looking down at her phone.

"Funny you should ask—that was me, actually. Why?"

"This guy was asking 'bout it. I guess you could help him."

Tim turns to me, his small gray eyes gazing at me politely. "Were those two your friends? That was my last ride of the day, that night. They were quiet, especially the girl, but the boy seemed nice enough. They seemed a bit lost."

I can't believe my luck. "Yeah, that's definitely them. Where did they go?" I begin shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

"I took 'em out to a place on the outskirts of the woods. A few hours from here. Some place called Aspen County. I've never heard of it, but they seemed to know what to look for. Funny place—"

I can tell he's about to ramble, and I cut him off. "Can you take me there?"

"Well I'm not sure I remember how to get there. And I have my GPS set up to discard places at the end of each day. There've been a few problems in the past with—"

Not willing to listen to his useless blather again, I reach out and grab him by the front of his shirt, pulling him close to me. "You can't remember anything?" I ask through my teeth, my voice low and dangerous.

"Whoa, let him go!" the girl cries from behind the counter, standing and backing away with her hands held out defensively in front of her.

I glance at her before hardening my glare at Tim and drawing him closer. He swallows, swinging his feet slightly as I lift him off of the ground. "Just tell me where you took them. Take me there, and I won't hurt you."

"Hey, I don't want any trouble. Just put me down, walk away, and this'll all be forgotten. We won't even call the cops on you."

I throw him onto the ground. "You think I care about the cops?" I yell manically. The girl crouches below the desk. "Take a look at my rap sheet and tell me how much I care about the damn cops. Take me to my friends."

"No, man, you're dangerous. I don't care what you do—I'm not taking you anywhere!"

I snarl and kick Tim. He yelps as he slides across the floor, stopped only when he bangs into the doorway. I glance at the girl who presses send and desperately puts her phone to her ear.

As I approach her, she cries out desperately, "Please come help us now! Randy and Sons Transportation Service! Hurry, ple—" Before she can finish, I take the phone and throw it forcefully against the wall. It breaks and falls to the floor.

Knowing that she can't do anything for me, I advance on Tim, who's probably suffering from broken ribs and fractures right about now. But I don't care. I grab him by the front of his shirt again, and he makes another sound of pain as he's yanked off of the floor. "Where are they?" I demand. I can hear cops in the distance and know they're about two minutes away, but it doesn't faze me.

"Bite me!" he shouts, flinching in pain as I jostle him.

"Don't tempt me." I throw him back to the ground, knowing that I could Transform him into a werewolf with a bite and he would probably still not talk. Growling, I storm out of the office and into the chilly, late autumn air. Two police cruisers, two cops in each, turn the corner, their sirens whooping and lights blinking as they approach.

"Shit!" I mutter. I whirl around and take off in the opposite direction like a bat out of Hell. They immediately pursue me, and I sprint through the unfamiliar streets, trying to evade arrest while subconsciously avoiding back alleys—I always had bad experiences with those. However, despite my best efforts, I somehow find myself encased in a tight brick cage with the shiny cruisers serving as the closed gate.

The officers get out of the cars and begin warily approaching me, their guns drawn and aimed. "Calm down, kid," a Hispanic cop from the front car calls soothingly. "Just put your hands where we can see them and get on your knees. Do that and we'll lower our guns and just talk, okay?"

I sigh through gritted teeth and roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah—I know the drill." I do as he asked, watching them exchange uncertain looks before they lower their guns slightly. They're shoulders all remain tense. The Hispanic cop, about 30 or so, tucks his gun into his holster and warily approaches me. He pulls handcuffs out of his belt, and I immediately become alarmed. "Whoa, are those made of steel?" I demand anxiously.

He pauses and looks down at them. "I don't know—probably." He shrugs and continues approaching me.

Unwilling to be poisoned again after already having felt steel's lethal touch more than once, I wait patiently until he gets closer. As soon as he's close enough to touch, my hand whips out, and before any of the cops have a chance to even think about what's happening, I'm on my feet, the cop's gun in my hand. I pistol-whip the Hispanic cop and watch him fall to the floor, watching him spit out teeth and clutch his face from the force that the werewolf curse allowed me to inflict upon him. I turn and face the others with wild eyes.

They have their guns raised and ready, but as I steadily approach them, they back away slowly. The oldest one of the group, a salt-and-pepper haired man somewhere between forty and sixty stays in front of the other two. "Put down the gun, kid. We don't want to shoot you," he says calmly.

I ignore him—I've heard it all before. Disregarding what he said, I aim at the ground in front of him, about a millimeter in front of the toe of his New Balance sneakers, and fire. The cops all jump, but I don't pay that any mind. "Let me go. I don’t want to hurt you guys, but I will if you don't get out of my way."

"Put down the gun!"

"I will if you do!"

"I can't do that, kid. Put it down, and we'll just take you down to the station. No hard feelings."

I chuckle slightly, knowing that I sound insane. "I don't care about your feelings," I cry, my throat burning from my desperation to get out of here. "Let me go. I have to find her! She needs me!"

Something flashes in the middle-aged cop's eyes, and he nods as if he understands. "Oh, this is about a girl, huh. Well I'm sure she's just waiting for you. So why don't you let us take you down to the station, and you can call her from there."

I roll my eyes and sneer at him. "You don't get it. This is your last chance—I will kill you if I have to, but I'd rather not. Just let me leave from here."

I raise the gun and aim at the officers but right before I pull the trigger, I'm knocked off balance. In my crazed distraction, I had completely ignored the cop that I had injured earlier, and when he launches himself at me to save his colleagues, he catches me off guard enough that he's able to grab my wrists with the cuffs. I scream out in pain, my shriek about high-pitched as my voice was before I hit puberty, and drop the gun as I feel my skin begin to sizzle, and he snatches his gun off of the floor as I glare up at him.

All of the cops, relieved that I'm restrained and that the gun is no longer in my hands, gather around me. "What should we do with him?" one of them, a young officer in about his twenties with red hair, asks.

I glare up at them. "Get them off of me! I'm severely allergic to steel!"

"Well what do you propose we do with you?" the older cop asks. "We can't just let you go after the stunt you just pulled."

"I don't care what you do! Dammit!" My wrists had gone slack, and the cuffs had touched my lower back where my shirt had risen slightly in when the cop knocked me over. "Get them off! I'll go willingly if I have to! Just please take the cuffs off of me!"

I angrily blink back the tears that the pain forces into my eyes as the searing deepens. After exchanging looks, the older cop nods, and the Hispanic quickly pulls out the key and frees me. I crumble on the ground, massaging my aching wrists. The Hispanic and the redhead grab my arms and haul me off the floor and lead me to the car.

"You're in some real trouble kid," the Hispanic cop comments, shaking his head as they help me into the backseat of the car.

"It is so much worse than you think," I whisper. They shut the door, load into the car—the redhead is driving since the Hispanic is still bleeding from his now screwed up gums—and I'm arrested. Again.
* * * * *
“I have never seen someone have a rap sheet as long as yours at your age.”

The older cop who helped arrest me, Officer Redrane, sits outside of my cell with my file in his hands—they had to make special accommodations for me since they're unable to cuff me to a chair and I'm "dangerous" So, rather than going into an interview room, they just made me give them my name—I had already told them I was in the system—and I got my cell early and am now being forced to indulge Officer Redrane's attempts to analyze my past.

“I mean, you have had more charges against you between the ages of twelve and fifteen than I've seen some career criminals acquire in fifteen years. Shall I read the list?”

“I'd actually rather you didn’t. I've kind of turned over a new leaf in the past few years and have tried working on my behavior since I left home.”

“Ah yes, you're also a runaway—it says that right here that you used to do that a lot. Ran away to stay with your brother. But let's just look at the list. You have been accused of and/or charged with dealing, possession, battery, unarmed assault , assault with a deadly weapon, auto theft, joy riding in a stolen vehicle, trespassing, destruction of private property, destruction of public property, driving under the influence, underage drinking, resisting arrest, and assault of an officer.” He looks up at me. “You received several of those on multiple occasions, and you got half of them in one night.”

“Yeah, I was also charged with a drunk and disorderly and was able to get out of that, but I told you, that's not who I am anymore. It hasn't been in almost three years. I haven't done pot since I left home for the final time. I haven't drunk anything other than water since then either. No more reckless driving or destruction of property or anything.”

“Yes, because your assault of that cabby, of Officer Ortiz, and resistance of arrest today are so convincing of that.”

“Well did you expect me to just let him put the cuffs on me?” I hold up my sore wrists. “That was justified. As for the cabby, well, he had information I needed and he wasn't giving it. He had that coming to him.”

“And did he give it up?” he asks, his eyebrow cocked. When I ignore the question, he sighs and moves on. “Why don't you explain your most recent disappearance on February 20th of 2010?”

“Simple: my mom was a bitch, my stepdad was an asshole, my brother said I couldn't come back to his dorm, and that's all you need to know.”

“Son, you'd better stop trying to be funny. You're in some deep trouble here. Officer Delmas is on the phone right now with Pennsylvania, so there are going to be a lot more people asking you much tougher questions.”

“Then there's going to be a lot more cops who get pissed off because no one is going to find out where I went and why. So I'd stop wasting my life if I was you, because it's not worth it.” I sigh and begin rubbing my temples until I'm painfully reminded that that’s exactly what Louve does when she's exasperated. I feel a pang in my chest and am suddenly exhausted. “Look, I know how this works: you’re gonna say that I'm being charged with the assault of a citizen and officer and my resistance of arrest, and then there'll be a court date, and then I'll say how sorry I am, but no one will buy it because I'm just another misguided, reckless teenager.” Officer Delmas returns, but I ignore him, still focusing on the process I've been thus far familiar with in my criminal career. He stares intently at me, looking amused, as he leans back against the wall opposite me with his arms crossed. “However, I'm still a minor, and people hate to see teenagers waste their entire lives in a cell when they could turn things around, so I'll get away with community service—minor jail time, maybe, and some time on probation—and a slap on the wrist and then we'll part ways and I'll do what I came to Michigan to do.”

“Pretty accurate,” the ginger commends lazily, a pleased sneer on his face, “but you forgot a couple of things.” He turns to Officer Redrane. “I just got off the phone with Burleigh County, where this one came from. As it turns out, he missed several meetings with his probation officer—almost three years' worth to be  exact—and his bail hearing, so he's being shipped back to Pennsylvania next week to face some of his past charges.”

Shocked, I jump up from the jail cot I'd been laying in while talking to Officer Redrane. “What?” I demand, clutching one of the bars in my right hand in my fury. I immediately regret that action, however, when the burning sensation returns, this time in my palm. I snarl in agony and yank my hand away, pointing at the officers angrily while massaging my burned palm with the thumb of my opposite hand. “I cannot go back there! Most people think that I'm dead there, and I would like to keep it that way.”

“Sorry, kid, but that's just not the way it's gonna be. Word'll be out soon that the car thieving druggie known as Ryder Adams will be back soon to face up for his crimes. In the meantime, you’re not going anywhere.”  The red head steps away from the wall, uncrosses his arms, and strolls back down the hallway.

Redrane gets up from the chair with a grunt and offers me a sympathetic look. “Sorry, kid, but it's just the way it's gotta be. I’m sure your girl will understand.” He begins walking away, but taking pity on me, he turns back. “If you want, I might be able to get the chief to let you give her a call. It'll be hard, but if you don't try anything stupid, we might be able to get work something out—those burn marks may help you out. Would she take your call if I could?”

“No, she won't.” I sigh, having already tried talking to her through Projection, and he begins walking away again. “But wait, if you get me that phone call, I'd really appreciate it. There's someone else I really need to talk to who might be able to help.”

He nods understandingly as he walks away. “I'll see what I can do. Good night, kid.”

“Thanks, Officer Redrane,” I mutter. I lie back on the cot and desperately hope that I can get that call. I can talk to Louve whenever, but there is one person I really want to talk to: Robin.

'So I've had a minor setback,' I inform Louve as I lay back on the prison cot. 'I was arrested again. They're threatening to ship me back to Pennsylvania, but I won't let them. I'll get out of here, and I'll find you. I love you.'

Certain she won't reply, I absentmindedly hold my arms up and stare up at my wrists and burned hand, thinking about how much I love Louve. Despite the confident voice I sent her the words with, the more I think about my current situation, the less likely I think that I'll ever be able to get out. But no matter what, I refuse to call on those traitors. I don't need them, and they're not worthy of Louve.

At least that's what I tell myself.