The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1)

 

 

by Domino Finn

 

 

Copyright © 2014 by Domino Finn. All rights reserved.

 

Published by Blood & Treasure, Los Angeles

Second Edition

 

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental. This book represents the hard work of the author; please reproduce responsibly.

 

Cover Design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.

 

Print ISBN: 978-0-692-31706-8

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"If you really want proof of werewolves, just put me in a room with a heavy door that locks and sit with me for twenty minutes."

The man in the hospital bed tugged his left wrist. The handcuffs clinked securely against the bed's aluminum frame.

Detective Maxim Dwyer scratched his three-day beard and considered the prisoner. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and pressed the awkward button on the side. The screen flashed 2:45 a.m. and he returned it to his pocket with a sigh.

"Forget I asked," said Maxim. "I didn't arrest you because of local superstitions. I want to know what happened in Sycamore Lodge earlier tonight."

The man glanced at the other two prisoners in the room.

This wasn't a conventional hospital. It was a limited clinic that sat atop the marshal's office, and the only care provider in Sanctuary. The small town wasn't entirely isolated in the woods—it was only thirty minutes west of Flagstaff and its first class facilities—but it was quaint enough that the city services were crammed into a few buildings on Main Street. The fire department was staffed with emergency responders who had treated the prisoners at the scene, and this upstairs clinic had doctors who could handle most common treatments.

This was a special room. A secure room. It had four bunks, two guards posted outside, and a mesh of wired glass that served as the single fixed window. The only light, from a table lamp, cast a warm glow on the prisoners.

Four beds, four bikers, thought Maxim. Except one of the beds was empty. It wouldn't be filled tonight.

A wiry blonde woman lay with a fresh cast on one arm and cuffs on the other. A rough-looking Indian man, also cuffed, had a cast on his leg. Neither had ID and both were sleeping, whether the result of drink or medication, Maxim wasn't sure.

The third prisoner was the anomaly. He carried identification with a given name of Diego de la Torre. Twenty-seven-year-old Hispanic male, Michigan license. They had all crashed their motorcycles. The other two bikers had been lucky to only sustain minor lacerations and broken bones. Diego had been luckier still; somehow, he was mostly unscathed.

He was also the only one of the three who was currently coherent.

"You can't keep me here, Detective," murmured the man in a vaguely South American accent.

Maxim grinned. "From where I'm standing, that's exactly what I can do."

Diego's eyes narrowed.

"No, I get it," said Maxim, putting his hand up before the prisoner could argue. "Your motorcycle club is above the law, is that right?"

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what? Is this a bad time for you, with the full moon and all?"

Maxim chuckled. The grotesque rumors shadowed the motorcycle club. They were the reason for its peculiar reputation. Whisperings of beasts were not uncommon among the criminals who frequented his jail, but this went further. Even some of the veteran officers in the station had similar wild claims. Word was, these bikers were wild animals inside.

Maxim wasn't so sure about that. It wasn't that he discounted the supernatural outright—rather, he thought of himself as an open-minded skeptic. Wait for proof, even look for it, but don't believe something based entirely on talk or supposition. After all, his job was about following evidence.

"I know you don't believe," said Diego. "But I know you want to. Why else would you ask me about it?"

The detective shook his head dismissively. He didn't know why he'd asked. It was a throwaway question before he went home for the night.

"Just curious."

Diego nodded. "That is my offer then. I can show you proof if you take me to a separate room."

It had already been a long night, and the prospect sounded more tiring than exciting. But again, Maxim thought about following the evidence. If a suspect offered to show him a wolf, how could he refuse?

"I can just wait here to get that proof," replied the detective. He spun around with his hands in the air. "In fact, maybe I should get the video camera from the interrogation room downstairs for your big moment."

"You have a small cell where you can lock me to the table," rasped Diego, less a question than a statement. He gritted his teeth as if he'd made a decision. "Fine, let's go there."

"That room isn't for tourists, Diego. I've got to fill out paperwork if I take you there. It's a pain in the ass." Maxim wasn't lying, either. It meant the difference between leaving in twenty minutes or an hour, at least—not that he had any reason to make it home. Maxim caught himself rubbing his silver wedding ring with his left thumb, and then forced the thought out of his mind.

As always, the detective was willing to put the work in if he knew it would yield results. The department guaranteed overtime, but more importantly, Maxim had a reputation to maintain.

Going home on time was never his priority, but it didn't hurt to play coy.

"Trust me," Maxim asserted, "you and your friends will see the interrogation room in the morning when one of you flips on the others. My shift is over, and I'm on my way out." The detective took a step backwards and lifted his cheeks in a playful smirk. "Although, if you're willing to transform for me, I could give you a few extra minutes."

Diego rubbed his free hand through his wavy black hair. He was balmy and distraught and appeared to be looking around the room for a means to escape. Fat chance in this situation, lycanthrope or not.

Maxim continued backing up into the open doorway.

"This is a serious matter," insisted the prisoner, glancing at his unconscious friends. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm taking a risk trusting you. You're a police detective. Don't tell me you haven't seen or heard anything suspicious. Strange signs, unexplained disappearances?"

The detective stopped hard as if he'd walked into a wall. His eyes instinctively moved once again to his wedding band. Diego's plea hit too close to home. Maxim eyed the doorway to see if anyone else had heard.

"What do you know about disappearances?" demanded Maxim abruptly.

The prisoner shook his head. "Only signs. Trends."

Maxim clenched his jaw. He wouldn't let Diego control the interrogation. "I need you to understand the position you're in. I have better things to do than stay here and talk all night." The detective told the same lie often and well. The truth was the best thing going for Maxim was his career and his reputation as a closer. "However, if you want to tell me what happened in that roadhouse tonight, then I can find time for you."

The biker grimaced as he faced Maxim's stern countenance. "Fine," he relented. "You take me down there so I can confess. Then I'll give you your proof." Diego paused as he examined the analog clock hanging on the far wall, silently counting. "But only if we go now."

Maxim smiled. Everyone had buttons to push, and he was good at finding them. This was just another night in the office. But as he looked into the solemn face of the man in bed, with pupils wide and almost pure black in the dim light, something didn't feel right.

 

 

Before the vocals had a chance to start, Maxim switched the station. His wife loved that song, and she was the last thing he wanted to think about now.

He leaned back in his faded green sedan. The headrest scratched his head where the fake leather had cracked. It was a familiar feeling, and not entirely uncomfortable. Sitting in his car for long periods of time was part of the job.

These days, working was the only thing keeping him going. Even at night, when he was technically off the clock, when there was nothing going on, he desperately needed the distraction. But his world was filled with reminders.

A song. A memory. A glimmer of the full moon reflecting off his silver wedding band.

It was funny, he thought. As much as he avoided thinking about Lola, he still wore the ring. He supposed it was his last shred of duty. Like a string tied to his pinky, it was a reminder he told himself he needed. Even if it cut off his circulation. Even if it strangled him.

Finally, after two years of hitting the bottle pretty hard, the detective needed something else. So he sat outside the roadhouse and waited. For what, he wasn't sure.

Was it resolve? Courage? Or was it just the bitterness of not knowing?

Maxim had only been a detective for a few years, but he'd taken to the job, heart and soul. Understanding all the angles was in his blood now. And he knew, however smoothly the twelve years of his career had gone, the Sanctuary Marshal's Office was letting something slip by.

Sanctuary was a small town situated in an Arizona forest. Colloquially, the greater area was known as Sycamore: vast wilds of mountain highlands, thick greens, even open desert. It was a jumbled tapestry of landscapes, mostly free from human intervention, not untouched but unchanged. It was wild, as were its sparse inhabitants.

Sanctuary was on the edge of that, with a front row seat to the beauty. And the danger.

The Sanctuary Marshal's Office enjoyed its outsider status. The department preferred to handle business internally, in its own way, and that's what had recently piqued Maxim's ire.

He wasn't supposed to be here, outside Sycamore Lodge.

The biker roadhouse was a cesspit of tough guys and cheap beer and was known for the occasional brawl. It was only when matters crossed the line that the police even took notice. This was reinforced by the standing order from the marshal himself: no one was to interfere with members of the local motorcycle club, the Seventh Sons.

With them, a singular kind of discretion was paramount.

The Seventh Sons didn't live or operate within town limits, but they were staples of Sanctuary nonetheless. They usually just passed through to commiserate and drink and fight at Sycamore Lodge. The roadhouse was far enough isolated that the noise and hooliganism weren't major concerns for the citizens or the department, and the club historically enjoyed a lot of leeway.

Tonight, it was finally time to put pressure on them. So Detective Maxim Dwyer sat alone in his parked car, under the moonlight, and watched the raucous crowd inside and out.

A voice came over the police band. "Still a whole lot of nothing out here, sir." It was Gutierrez, the rookie Maxim had posted on the only road out of town.

Maxim picked up the handset and replied. "I know. I got eyes on some of the club members at the Lodge. Are you set?"

"Stop sticks are ready to deploy if needed. You sure about this, though? I don't think we're supposed to be keeping tabs on the Seventh Sons."

"Just follow orders, rookie. You won't catch the heat. The sergeant said he didn't need you tonight, so you're all mine. Let me know if you see any other club members pass you by. Otherwise, let's keep the radio clear."

"10-4, boss."

Maxim dropped the handset and sighed. Everything about the Sons was untouchable, from their shady dealings to the otherworldly rumors that had the citizens spooked. Police departments doling out special treatment was a harsh reality of life, but why let a motorcycle club benefit?

It didn't make sense, and Maxim refused to be a drone any longer. The only thing he had was his job, and he didn't know what would happen if it stopped making sense.

Eventually, Maxim's patience paid off.

A commotion broke out in the heart of the roadhouse. It spread like a wave and spilled into the patio. The intense crowd made it difficult to source the problem, but the screams were urgent. Maxim skipped out of his car without bothering to turn it off.

As he pushed his way through the revelers, several bikers fled the ruckus.

"Marshal's office!" screamed Maxim, holding up his badge. His right hand rested on the Glock at his belt. "Stop!"

He was sure he was heard above the noise, but the men ignored him. Maxim tried to cut through the panicking people, but their activity was too frantic to contain. As he shuffled one way, they shuffled the other, and the tide was difficult to overcome. By the time Maxim reached the lodge doorway, he lost sight of the bikers.

Fortunately, the hardened patrons of the bar settled down. The live band stopped strumming their instruments and the screams died down. A circle formed in front of the stage, revealing a bloodied stone floor.

That's when Maxim heard the motorcycles rev up outside. He saw the four bikers again, rolling into the street with their headlights switched off. The detective cursed and raced back to his car. His foot was on the gas and the tires kicked up dirt before he closed the door.

"10-31," he called into the radio. "This is it." Maxim flicked his lights and siren on.

The motorcycles were difficult to keep up with. With their lights off, the detective had to rely on the ever further flashes of their brake reflectors. Maxim was considering his options when one of the bikes slid onto its side in a flurry of dirt.

He skidded his vehicle to a halt and sprang out of the car.

"Hands up!" he commanded, drawing his weapon.

As he closed on the suspect, his urgency melted away.

"What the?"

A moment of thought was all Maxim needed. He holstered his firearm, marched back to his car, and picked up the radio. This wasn't about snooping on the motorcycle club anymore. Standard procedure no longer applied.

Maxim couldn't let the Seventh Sons leave town.

"Deploy the spikes, Gutierrez. Take them down."

 

Spike stripes were designed with a single purpose: to stop vehicles by shredding their tires. As a tactical surprise, in the dark with their headlights off, the bikers didn't stand a chance.