Chapter 15 The Rookeries Welcome
POV: Isla Reid
Location: East End, Whitechapel
Time: Three Days After Eviction
I've been walking for hours. My backpack holds everything I still own. Three changes of clothes, my nursing certification that's useless now, and forty-three pounds in cash. That's what's left after paying Mum's care home for one more month.
The East End looks different at night. Grittier. Darker. The Veil's thinner here, like the barrier between human and supernatural London is wearing away from overuse. Humans hurry past with their eyes down, sensing danger even if they can't identify it. They know not to linger in these streets after dark.
I know where I'm going even though I've never been here before. Marcus mentioned the Rookeries when I tracked him down after the attack. Said it's where packless wolves end up when they have nowhere else to go. The supernatural slums of London.
I can smell it before I see it. Werewolves. Dozens of them. Their scents overlap and blend together, creating this thick atmosphere of desperation and violence. These aren't pack wolves with territory and structure. These are broken creatures barely holding onto their humanity.
The Feral Den announces itself with a flickering neon sign. The building looks like it used to be a pub fifty years ago before humans abandoned this street. Now it's something else. A refuge for monsters who have no other options.
I push through the door. The smell hits me immediately. Unwashed bodies, cheap alcohol, blood. Old blood and fresh blood mixing together. My enhanced senses pick up every detail and it makes my stomach turn.
The bar is packed. Maybe thirty wolves, all of them packless based on the lack of unified scent. Everyone turns to look at me when I enter. Assessing. Judging. Trying to figure out if I'm prey or competition.
A female wolf approaches. She's maybe forty, hard-looking, with scars covering her arms and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. "You're new. Fresh turned from the smell of you."
"Is it that obvious?"
"You still smell partly human. Turned wolves keep that for a few months." The woman looks me up and down. "What are you doing in the Rookeries? This isn't a place for wolves who have other options."
"I don't have other options. Lost my job. Lost my flat. No pack will take me because I'm turned."
"So you came here. Smart. Stupid, but smart." The woman gestures to the bar. "I'm Kat. Been packless for six years. You want to survive in the Rookeries, you need to know the rules."
I follow Kat to the bar. The bartender is a massive male wolf with dead eyes. He pours something brown into a glass without asking what I want. I don't drink it.
"Rule one," Kat says. "Don't trust anyone. Every wolf here is desperate. Desperate people do desperate things."
"Noted."
"Rule two. You need money to survive. Rent, food, bribes to keep humans from noticing us. There are three ways packless wolves make money in the Rookeries." Kat counts on her fingers. "Sex work, blood selling, or pit fighting."
My stomach drops. "Those are my options?"
"Those are everyone's options. Unless you've got skills someone needs." Kat studies me. "What did you do before you were turned?"
"I was a nurse. Trauma ward at St. Thomas Hospital."
Kat's expression shifts. "A nurse. That's actually useful. There's demand for medical work here. Packless wolves get injured constantly. Most of them can't go to hospitals without raising questions."
"I lost my certification when I got fired. I can't legally practice medicine."
"You think anyone here cares about legal? You've got skills. You can set bones, treat wounds, stop bleeding. That's worth something." Kat waves over two other wolves. Both male, both looking desperate and dangerous. "This is Rico and Tam. They run different operations in the Rookeries."
Rico is skinny and twitchy. His eyes dart around constantly like he expects an attack at any moment. "You looking for work?"
"Depends on the work."
"I run blood harvesting. Vampires pay good money for werewolf blood. It's addictive, potent. You donate twice a week, I give you twenty percent of what I sell it for." Rico shows me his arms. Track marks everywhere. "Easy money. Just a little blood."
"How much blood?"
"Pint each time. Your werewolf healing handles it fine. You'll be weak for a day or two but you recover."
I shake my head. "No. I'm not selling my blood."
"Your loss." Rico shrugs and walks away.
Tam is bigger, covered in scars from what look like claw marks. "I run the pit fights. Packless wolves fight each other, people bet on outcomes. Winner gets two hundred quid. Loser gets medical bills and maybe permanent damage."
"You want me to fight?"
"You're fresh. Young. Healthy. You'd do well for a few matches until someone stronger comes along." Tam grins. It's not friendly. "Or you could work medical. Patch up fighters after matches. That pays less but it's safer. Fifty quid per fight night."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long. Opportunities don't last in the Rookeries." Tam leaves.
Kat lights another cigarette. "See? Options. Not good options, but options."
"Those aren't options. Those are ways to destroy myself slowly instead of quickly."
"Welcome to packless life. We don't get good choices. We get survival choices." Kat blows smoke. "There's one more option. Sex work. If you're interested, there's a vampire club in Soho that pays well for werewolf companions. The vampires like the power dynamic. You'd make good money."
"I'm not selling my body."
"Then you're selling your blood or your violence. Pick one." Kat stubs out her cigarette. "Or starve. Also an option. Plenty of packless wolves choose that one eventually."
I look around the bar. Every wolf here has that same desperate look. That same hollow expression of people who've given up hope. Some of them are drinking heavily. Some are huddled in corners. Some have fresh wounds that haven't healed yet.
This is my future. This is what I've become.
An older woman approaches our end of the bar. She's maybe sixty, gray-haired, with kind eyes that seem out of place in this setting. "Kat, stop scaring the new wolf."
"I'm not scaring her. I'm educating her."
"You're painting the bleakest picture possible." The older woman extends her hand to me. "I'm Meg. I run a flophouse three streets over. Rooms for packless wolves who can't afford regular rent."
"How much?"
"Depends on what you can pay. Some wolves pay cash. Some work for room and board. I heard Kat say you're a nurse."
"Was a nurse. I lost my certification."
"But you've got the skills. You know how to treat wounds, set bones, stop bleeding." Meg's watching me carefully. "I could use someone like you at the flophouse. Plenty of wolves there get injured. Most of them can't afford proper medical care. You treat them, keep them alive, and I'll give you a room. No rent."
"Just medical work? No blood selling or fighting or. other things?"
"Just medical work. Though I warn you, it's not easy. You'll be treating knife wounds, silver burns, feral wolf attacks. Sometimes you'll lose patients. Sometimes they'll die because you can't save them." Meg's voice is gentle but honest. "It's hard work for no pay. But it's honest work. That's rare in the Rookeries."
I look at Meg. At her kind eyes and her honest face. She's offering me a lifeline. A way to survive that doesn't require selling pieces of myself.
"Why would you help me? You don't know me."
"Because I was you once. Freshly turned, packless, desperate. Someone helped me survive those first months. I'm paying it forward." Meg gestures toward the door. "Come see the flophouse. Decide if it's something you can handle. No pressure."
I follow Meg out of The Feral Den. Kat calls after us, "Good luck, new wolf. You're going to need it."
The flophouse is a four-story building that looks like it should have been condemned years ago. The windows are cracked. The door hangs crooked on its hinges. The entire structure seems to sag under its own weight.
"It's not much," Meg says as we climb the front steps. "But it's shelter. That's more than most packless wolves have."
Inside, the building smells like unwashed bodies and despair. The walls are stained. The floor creaks with every step. But it's warm and dry, which is something.
Meg leads me through the first floor. Wolves are scattered throughout. Some sleeping in corners. Some sitting in what used to be a living room, staring at nothing. All of them look broken.
"How many wolves live here?"
"Twenty-three currently. Comes and goes. Some wolves stay long-term. Some stay a few weeks and move on. Some die here." Meg's matter-of-fact about it. "I try to keep everyone fed and sheltered. Beyond that, there's not much I can do."
We climb to the second floor. Meg shows me a small room at the end of the hall. It's maybe eight feet by ten feet. There's a mattress on the floor, a small table, and nothing else. The window's cracked but covered with cardboard.
"This would be yours. Private space. Lock on the door. I don't allow anyone in your room without permission."
"It's perfect." And it is. After three nights sleeping in a Tube station, this looks like luxury.
"Medical supplies are in the basement. Whatever I can scavenge or buy cheap. It's not a hospital but it's something." Meg hands me a key. "One week trial. You treat whoever needs it. If it works out, the room's yours long-term. If it doesn't, no hard feelings."
I take the key. It's warm from Meg's hand. "Thank you. Really. I don't know what else to say."
"Say you'll do your best. That's all anyone can ask." Meg heads for the door. "Get settled. First patient's probably coming soon. They usually do."
Meg leaves. I'm alone in my new room. My new life. This is it. This is what I've been reduced to. A packless wolf living in a flophouse, treating other desperate creatures for no pay.
But it's better than selling my blood. Better than fighting in pits. Better than selling my body.
I unpack my backpack. Three changes of clothes go on the table. My nursing certification goes in the drawer. It might be useless officially but it's still proof I was someone once.
I'm sitting on the mattress when I hear shouting from downstairs. Angry voices. Then screaming.
I grab the key and run downstairs. A crowd's gathered in the living room. In the center, two wolves are hunched over a third. The injured wolf is bleeding heavily from his throat. The scent of blood is overwhelming.
"What happened?" I push through the crowd.
"Feral wolf attack," one of the wolves says. "Marcus got too close to the eastern territory. Feral pack tore into him."
Marcus. The name registers. I look at the injured wolf's face. It's him. The wolf who bit me. The one who destroyed my life on someone else's orders.
Part of me wants to walk away. Let him bleed out. Call it karma.
But I'm a nurse. Was a nurse. Am a nurse. I can't let someone die when I have the skills to save them.
I drop to my knees beside Marcus. The throat wound is deep. Arterial bleeding. He's losing blood fast. His eyes are unfocused. Going into shock.
"I need supplies. Bandages, pressure pads, anything." I'm already applying pressure to the wound with my hands. Blood soaks through my fingers.
Someone runs to get supplies. I keep pressure on Marcus's throat. He's looking at me now. Recognition in his eyes. He knows who I am.
"Save. your. effort," Marcus rasps. "Let me. die."
"Shut up. I'm not letting you die." I don't know why I'm saving him. Don't know why I care. Maybe because he's the only connection I have to how this happened. Maybe because I'm not ready to let someone die just because they deserve it.
Someone hands me bandages. I pack the wound, applying constant pressure. The bleeding's slowing but it's bad. He needs stitches. Needs antibiotics. Needs proper hospital care.
He's not getting any of that. He's getting me and whatever supplies this flophouse has.
I work for twenty minutes. Packing the wound, wrapping bandages, keeping him from bleeding out. By the time I'm done, I'm covered in his blood. My hands are shaking from adrenaline.
Marcus is still alive. Barely. But alive.
Meg appears beside me. "Good work. You kept him breathing."
"He needs real medical care. This is just stopgap."
"This is all he's getting. Welcome to the Rookeries." Meg helps me stand. "That's your first patient. There'll be more. Lots more."
I look down at Marcus. The wolf who bit me. The one who turned me into a monster. I just saved his life.
This is my life now. Patching up monsters in slums. Keeping desperate creatures alive for another day. Working for shelter and nothing else.
Everything I built over years of education and hard work has led me here. To a flophouse in the East End, treating packless wolves who have no other options.
I'm one of them now. A packless monster with no future beyond survival.