The Bureau (A Cage for Men and Wolves Book 1) Read online

  "I was dropping my things off. I was coming to you next."

  Pierson wore a constricting pencil skirt in place of the slacks she saw many of the women wearing, and she wore a brown shoulder pad that matched the uniform Clover was wearing.

  "This will be the only time I'll come to fetch her from you, Mr. Montgomery." The woman's voice was instantly venomous. "Starting tomorrow you will check her in upon arrival, is that understood?"

  "Yes, ma'am.” His politeness was an obvious formality.

  "Come." Mrs. Pierson barely glanced in Clover's direction before marching out of the cubicle.

  Clover gave Elliot a look that urged him to do something, but was only met by a cold shrug of his shoulders. Her mouth fell open as she realized that, in that moment, he was childishly paying her back for calling him useless. He was actually retaliating against her, and his nearly imperceptible grin told her that he was enjoying himself.

  "I won't say it again," Mrs. Pierson seethed when she realized that her charge was not instantly on her heels.

  Not wanting to raise alarms more than she had, Clover did as she was told and hoped Elliot's rebellious streak wouldn't go as far as turning her in to his father. Leaving the cubicle, and her only assurance of safety, she followed the woman and her fascinating braid down the hall. Clover tried to keep track of where they were going so she could make it back to Elliot's station in case of emergency, but it wasn't long before she was effectively lost.

  They were on a much lower level of the building now, maybe even in a basement level if she'd read the elevator correctly. She guessed that this woman, Mrs. Pierson, was in charge of the indentured werewolves that were brought into the Bureau. The way she'd spoken of "checking her in" and the matching brown she wore on her shoulder guard made it clear, even to an outsider like Clover.

  "Where are we going?" Clover figured she was stepping out of line, but hoped the submissive tone she'd put on would help ease the transgression.

  It didn't. In a single, swift motion, Mrs. Pierson’s arm swung around with the twisting of her body, striking Clover's cheek with the back her ringed fingers. The blow hadn't been strong enough to knock Clover off her feet, but it echoed and made her stumble. She felt a spot of blood when her hand covered her throbbing cheek. One of Mrs. Pierson' rings had punctured her skin.

  "How dare you speak without direction?" She looked honestly shocked that she'd been addressed at all.

  Another worker walked unbothered past them, their shoes sounding loud in the silence. Pierson seemed unimpressed as she took the time to really look at Clover from head to toe.

  "I don't know where you came from, or what that mollycoddle of yours lets you get away with, but when you're under my charge you will stay silent, unless directly addressed. Do you understand?"

  It was hard for Clover not to hit the other woman back. She'd never let something so outrageous go unreturned before, but she nodded, looking down in a play of submission. Pierson seemed satisfied and continued her march through the growingly unkempt hallways.

  Certain now that they were in the maintenance halls of the building, Clover was unsurprised when the pristine, white walls gave way to cinderblock. At the center of these bare halls was a massive storage room. Uncovered pipes and wires formed a messy grid on the ceiling that ran down the walls to rows of valves and circuit breakers. While the room was expansive, it felt cramped as every indentured werewolf in the building was teeming inside it, gathering rolls of garbage bags, mop heads and large push-brooms. Mixed in the sea of brown uniforms were little points of black—agents who wore the tan should guard were breaking the unpaid workers into smaller groups.

  "Connell." Several of the tan-clad figures froze as Pierson summoned a young man in black who trotted toward them.

  "Ma'am?"

  "This one is Elliot Montgomery's," she said shortly. "Log her and take her with your crew."

  The red-haired man called Connell took Clover by her arm and guided her to a small desk hidden toward the back of the massive room. Sitting at the desk, Clover began to sweat as Connell tapped away at his keyboard, his eyes scanning Clover's papers. She wondered just how talented Fisher was at falsifying these things. How much practice could he possibly have had? She might not know much, but she was sure werewolves weren't lined up to sneak into the Bureau. She expected flashing lights and alarms as the system realized she'd never been picked up at all.

  Then the keyboard went silent and Connell handed the folded papers back to her. There had been no alarms, and he seemed unsuspecting, if not bored. She let out the breath she'd only just realized she'd been holding. Following the poorly postured young man, she returned the documents to the small pocket on her shirt. Maybe Fisher deserved all those watches after all.

  The sounds of cart wheels and garbage bags was steady, but no one spoke as Clover followed her new keeper toward a smaller group she assumed was the red-head's crew. Upon first glance she thought the four werewolves were all women, but as she neared them she realized one was a young man. He must have been very young. His features were effeminate, though he was taller than Clover. It was only his male-issued uniform that made her certain. Two of the others were older women, probably in their late forties, and the fourth was a foreign girl closer to Clover's age with straight, coal colored hair and dark circles under her upturned eyes.

  Each of them glanced at Clover as the two approached, but no one spoke. Instead, they obediently turned back to their work. They gathered their equipment with a familiarity that suggested they'd been doing it for a long time. Each of them moved efficiently, though not enthusiastically. At once, Clover noticed the black-haired girl walking with a distinct limp, her dark eyebrows drawn into a rigid line as she moved. There were any number of reasons for such an injury, and Clover hated that her mind was cataloging the possibilities.

  "Has our on-site werewolf protocol been explained to you?" Connell seemed less harsh than Pierson, but his voice was decidedly not sympathetic either.

  "No," Clover admitted.

  "Of course the future Director wouldn't bother."

  Clover had expected Elliot to have a reputation inside the Bureau, but she was surprised it was a poor one. Of course she thought people might be jealous of his position, but she wondered if this freckled agent knew that Elliot worked in a cramped cubicle just like everyone else.

  "Alright," he continued, his tone more commanding now. "You will work efficiently and silently. You will not get in the way of Bureau workers and will stay within sight of your chaperone at all times. That would be me. We're designated Crew 47 and we'll be working region 2-5-9 today. You can shadow Jeannette." He motioned to one of the older women who had curly, straw colored hair. "And for God's sake, have him read you your pamphlet when you get home."

  Connell called the crew to attention, then, and turned to lead them out of the room. It was a good thing he was facing the other way, because Clover could feel the annoyance on her face. Did they really think werewolves couldn’t read? Of course she could read. Hanging back so she walked just behind the woman called Jeannette, she followed.

  As they wound their way back to the pristine hallways, away from the cement and pipes, Clover’s annoyance with her new keeper petered out, her focus moving to the black-haired girl. Her limp seemed worse than she'd guessed now that they were moving, and she used the cart full of cleaning supplies like it was a walker.

  "What's your name?" Jeannette whispered, pausing in her step so Clover came up beside her.

  Clover glanced at the others, noticing that they’d drifted to the very back of the group. "It's Clover."

  "Don't worry about him." Jeannette smiled. "For the most part, he ignores us. He's not as strict as some of the others."

  That was good news. It was also good news that she had the chance to talk to a senior worker. Clover's mind exploded with questions. If Jeannette had been here long enough, maybe she wouldn't even need Elliot to get her family back. Maybe this woman knew where prisoners were
kept. Maybe she'd even met her family.

  "That's a pretty name." Jeannette hummed. "Is it real?"

  Clover hid her confusion poorly.

  "Some owners rename us," she explained, seeming gentler now, as though she could tell Clover was new to the lifestyle. "My name used to be Carla, but my mistress runs a very posh household and decided a name like that didn't match the theme."

  Clover tried to keep her mouth from falling open, but failed. They'd changed their new property the way someone would reupholster a couch to fit into their living room.

  "Like we're objects..." Clover mumbled to herself, eliciting a sympathetic smile from the older woman.

  "Just keep your head down and you'll be alright here," Jeannette said, touching her shoulder gently while Clover wondered if the softhearted woman had left children behind when she'd been picked up.

  Keep your head down. Of course that's how people survived this lifestyle. It made every part of Clover's body revolt. She'd spent her whole life keeping her head down. She wanted to be like the pack that once lived on the west end of town. The pack that had become notorious for vandalizing Bureau property—for fighting back. She wanted to fight back, and somewhere inside her, she knew her parents wanted to fight back as well. She'd seen it as she'd gotten older. The way they met with Fisher on occasion, and the strange parcels they exchanged with the members of riotous packs. Those packs were gone now—the last of them, the west end pack, wiped out by Rainer. And now her parents were gone. Would the Bureau know? Would they spare people like her parents? Or would they be killed before they even had the chance to go to a finishing school?

  A tender rub of her back returned her to the hallway she was in. Jeannette was watching her.

  "Do you have kids?" Clover’s voice was quiet, even for a whisper.

  "Yes," Jeannette murmured after a moment, her eyes pained and glowing at once.

  "Were they caught too?"

  "No."

  "Are you waiting for them to come find you?" Their conversation was only in whispers now, the weight of the topic heavy on both ends.

  "Of course not," Jeannette said gently. "I don't want them to ever come looking for me."

  Faint crow's-feet creased the corners of the woman's eyes in an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Clover's heart ached and suddenly she wondered if her mother would be happy to see her.

  - 12 -

  Jeannette’s words hung more heavily on Clover than the older woman would probably ever know. Did she not want to put her children in danger? Or did she just like being kept as a slave? Was she like Hannah?

  When Clover was fifteen, she'd watched a brown-clad girl her age get beaten in a park by a man twice her size—probably her owner. She'd thought for days after the experience that she should have done something to stop it. Now it was only one memory on a long list of regrets. She should have done something for that girl, but she hadn’t. What she had done was make a promise to herself—a promise that she would never be like that girl. She would die before being kept as a pet.

  Now she wondered if her parents had ever made that sort of promise to themselves.

  The work her crew did was tiring, but not difficult. The day blurred into a stream of emptying trash bins, sweeping, mopping, and polishing glass doors. Clover also began to see the real intricacy of the building. The halls were a labyrinth already, but laid over that was a hidden tangle of maintenance corridors and garbage chutes. She'd starve to death before finding her way out if she left her group.

  The first half of Clover's workday passed uneventfully. She should have been pumping the other werewolves for information, but Jeannette seemed to be the only one willing to talk to her at all. It didn't help that, even with an uninterested chaperone like Connell, they were never out of sight or earshot. When they were moving to another hallway, and another line of offices that needed cleaning, she managed a few questioned, their voices drown out by the rattling wheels of the cart.

  "Bringing us in isn't mandatory, I guess." Jeannette's master worked in the financial wing of the Bureau. She'd told Clover that she often overheard his business calls. "But it’s really encouraged. I've heard about workers getting harassed for not doing it."

  "Why? It doesn't seem like this place is lacking the funds to hire someone." Clover had been disgusted by the obvious expense of the equipment she'd been cleaning all day.

  "This place is completely self-funded." Jeannette sounded more educated than Clover had expected from a slave. Maybe it was her owners' high-class influence. "The government endorses them to give them power, but they don’t fund them. All of their money comes from the prisoners they sell to finishing schools, who turn around and make a profit from selling to individual owners. I heard my master say that without the finishing schools our entire economy would fall down."

  "Well from the looks of it, business is good." Clover couldn't keep her 'shy slave' mask on for that one.

  To avoid suspicion, Clover changed the subject to something more benign. Jeannette seemed unsuspecting, but she didn't want to risk it. Just because she was a werewolf didn’t mean Clover should trust her.

  As they finally broke for water, Clover decided to prod a little deeper. Connell was busy flirting with an office worker from a nearby department, so she took her chance.

  "Do you think that little computer in the store room is locked?" She tried to sound casual, looking through the mouthpiece of her water bottle like she was checking for poison.

  It had dawned on her about an hour ago. What if her family, at least her mother, was already here, inside this building? What if she was doing the same work Clover was at this very second? Part of her knew it was impossible. Her family had been gone less than a month; there was no way any of them could have made it through the finishing school system already, especially given the rebellious spirit she’d inherited from them. But sitting around, waiting for Elliot to get his act together would drive her crazy. She figured it was worth a shot.

  "That's a really dangerous question, you know."

  "I know." Clover's voice was solid, but she tried to soften the tone, not wanting to seem the type to act too rashly. Not wanting to seem like herself.

  "Honestly, I've never touched a computer in my life, so I’ve no idea if our roster is locked or not. You better not let one of them hear you asking things like that, though." She tilted her head toward Connell, whose back was still turned to them.

  "I was just curious," Clover murmured before polishing off the last half of her bottle in one go.

  They were both silent for a while, the now familiar atmosphere of resigned misery seeping in from the other workers.

  "I know what you're doing, Clover," Jeannette whispered, eyes fixed on her own drink.

  Something like pre-panic prickled across Clover’s skin.

  "But, even if you found your mother on our roster," her voice was sympathetic again, "What good would it do you? You both have different masters now. It would just hurt more to see each other."

  Clover’s sigh of relief sounded vaguely pained, even in her own ears, and she was glad for it. Jeannette had missed the heart of her lie.

  "I just want to see her," Clover said, thinking a show of sorrow would further distract the other woman from her real intentions. She hardly needed to act to be convincing.

  In the late afternoon, Connell finally led them back to the large, damp room they'd started in. Equipment was stowed and owners began claiming their property. Everyone in her crew had gone when Elliot finally arrived. Clover and the other stragglers had been given the task of bleaching mop-heads as they waited.

  "Don't think that being the director's son gives you special privileges here, Mr. Montgomery." Mrs. Pierson’s aggression was cooler, but just barely. She’d been supervising the pick-up by the main entrance into the maintenance room.

  "Of course not, Ma'am. Where I’m at now, I can only hope to be in a station as high as yours someday."

  It had been a subtle insult, b
ut even Clover had picked up on it. Elliot’s body language gave tiny signs—a quirked eyebrow, the slight tilt of his head, the quiet emphasis on the word “station.” Clover didn’t figure working with the slave labor had much prestige, and when Pierson’s lips pinched like she wanted to spit on him, Clover read the situation loud and clear. It was hard not to smile. Apparently Elliot did have some use—politely infuriating people. She kind of liked it.

  Elliot took the plastic card Pierson shoved at him without his smile faltering—the same card other owners had swiped through a machine before claiming their servants. Scraping together enough sense to not look Pierson in the eye, Clover followed Elliot out of the room. The woman was still seething, her arms folded sharply across her stomach. Clover could feel her stare, like she was waiting for a mistake. She wouldn't get one.

  "See you tomorrow, pet," she whispered so only Clover could hear as she passed.

  The subtle threat should have scared her, but she recognized the woman's scramble to reclaim her pride. Elliot had sliced it with his cool temper, and now she was taking it out on Clover. As she fought the urge to smile, she realized it wasn't just satisfaction she felt. She was relieved too. Elliot was still an enemy, but he'd become familiar, and she knew she still had leverage on him. She was glad to be with him again.

  As they stood in the empty lift, she finally chuckled.

  "What's so funny?" Elliot asked, masterfully retaining his prim demeanor.

  "She really hates you."

  "She hates most people," he clarified. There was a long pause, and then, "did she hit you?" His voice was quieter now.

  Clover looked at her prisoner, who was pointedly watching the numbers light up as the elevator moved toward the ground floor. His cheeks were flushed. Was he embarrassed? If she didn't know better, she'd think he was apologizing for being so smug that morning.

  "Yeah," Clover said, having nearly forgotten about the bruise on her face.