Page 41 of Fate, Interrupted

She’s not satisfied with this answer.

I stop at a red light and tap my fingers once against the wheel. Norah v.1 can suck it.

The light changes.

I go south.

The change in the neighborhood unfolds gradually, and then all at once. The cafés and boutiques thin out first, giving way to buildings with fewer windows and wider footprints, the kind built for function rather than foot traffic. The sidewalks stay clean and the roads stay maintained, but there are fewer pedestrians and more delivery trucks with their back doors open at the curb.

I roll the window down a few inches.

The air is different here. Less coffee and sugar, more metal and motor oil, the warmth of sun hitting brick that has been absorbing it for decades. I pass another few blocks and start noticing the people.

Delivery vans where the family cars used to be. Pedestrians moving with the focus of people who are going somewhere rather than looking for somewhere to go. They carry themselves differently, that physical presence I have been learning to read over the past several weeks because I’ve started paying attention.

Wolves.

I don’t need anyone to tell me. The recognition has gotten easier, more instinctive, like a frequency I’ve tuned into and can’t unhear. I recognize the broad builds and the easy physical confidence now. It’s how they move through space.

I find the street Silas mentioned their corporate office, warehouse, and family apartments are on, and slow the car.

The buildings here are larger, set farther apart, brick warehouses and converted industrial spaces running the length of the block with their loading docks open to the street. A few trucks sit backed up to the bays, workers moving racks and crates between them in a practiced rhythm.

Then I see it.

Coulter Cleaners. Simple blue lettering painted across the side of the building, repeated on the delivery vans lined up to the dock. The three-story building stretches nearly half the block. It’s solid and unpretentious. Nothing about it looks temporary or uncertain. The Coulters have clearly been here a long time.

A low mechanical hum comes from inside, steady, punctuated by the occasional metallic rattle of a cart rolling across concrete.

I pull into the gravel lot and cut the engine.

I stare at the blue Coulter Cleaners lettering on the nearest van, like the letters might rearrange themselves into clearer instructions. It offers no advice whatsoever.

The steering wheel is cool under my forehead when I lean against it.

Okay. So. This had felt noticeably more straightforward thirty minutes ago.

I sit back up, blow out a slow breath, and look at the warehouse.

By the time I’ve closed the car door, the activity at the loading dock has already processed my arrival. I can feel the attention before I see it.

Four men are working around the loading dock when I get out of the car. By the time I close the door, all four have noticed me.

Wolves, all of them, with the builds and stances I’m now fluent enough in to read on sight. They move around each other with a silent instinctive coordination, one stepping aside before the other reaches him, no words exchanged, no negotiation.

For a moment none of them acknowledge me directly.

Then the one with the clipboard looks up.

His gaze finds me and holds. Not hostile, only assessing. The attention of someone deciding what category of thing they’re looking at before they determine how to respond to it.

Briefly, I consider getting back in the car.

Too late. I’ve been seen, and retreating now would be worse than walking over there.

I square my shoulders and walk toward the dock.

The conversation between two of the men trails off as I get closer. They don’t look threatening. If anything, they look curious. And surprised.