Chapter 64 The Poor's Crimes
POV: Isla Reid
Location: The Rookeries
Time: Same Week
I'm treating a wound when I hear the commotion outside. Shouting. Crying. Someone's in trouble.
I step outside the shelter. See crowd gathered around a wolf. Young male. Maybe twenty. He's holding stolen food. Bread, cheese, some fruit. Maybe ten pounds worth.
Bill Bolter's there. Angry. "You stole from my supply cache. That's packless code violation. Pay back double or get exiled."
"I can't pay back. I don't have money. I was starving." The young wolf's voice is desperate. "I haven't eaten in four days. I just. I needed food."
"Then you starve. That's Rookeries. You don't steal from other packless. That's the only rule we have." Bill signals his enforcers. "Take the food back. Beat him. Make sure everyone knows theft has consequences."
I intervene. "Wait. He's starving. Four days without food. That's not crime. That's survival."
"It's theft. From community resources. Other wolves need that food. He takes it, someone else goes hungry." Bill's logic is harsh but practical. "Rookeries works because we have minimal rules. Break them and the whole system collapses."
"The system's already collapsing. Look around. Wolves are dying from poverty. From hunger. From silver poisoning. One wolf stealing bread isn't the problem. The poverty is the problem."
"Poverty's reality. Theft is choice. He chose wrong." Bill won't budge. "Beat him. Take back the food. Exile him if he steals again."
The enforcers move forward. I position myself between them and the young wolf.
"I'll pay for the food. Ten pounds. Consider it purchased rather than stolen."
"You're enabling him. Teaching him theft works because someone will bail him out."
"I'm keeping him alive. Teaching him community supports each other. That's different." I hand Bill ten pounds. "Sold. He keeps the food. No beating. No exile."
Bill takes the money. "Your resources. Your choice. But when he steals again and there's no one to bail him out, remember this moment."
The crowd disperses. The young wolf is crying. "Thank you. I. I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize for surviving. Apologize if you waste the chance I'm giving you." I lead him to the shelter. "What's your name?"
"Daniel. I've been in Rookeries for three months. Turned against my will. Lost my job. Lost my flat. Lost everything." Daniel's voice is breaking. "I've been trying. But it's so hard. Food is expensive. I can't fight in pits. Can't steal effectively. Can only beg and that barely works."
I give Daniel the food. "Eat. Then we'll talk about getting you stable situation."
I watch Daniel eat desperately. He's not criminal. He's victim. The system created the conditions. Then punishes him for responding to those conditions.
That's Rookeries. That's supernatural London. That's poverty everywhere.
Create impossible situations. Then criminalize survival responses. Then blame victims for crimes the system forced them into.
Later that day, I'm doing rounds when I see the mother. She's maybe thirty-five. Thin. Desperate. Holding a child. Maybe eight years old.
The child's a thrall. I can see the bite marks. The glazed eyes. The addiction.
"Please. Can you help her? She needs. she needs vampire blood. She's in withdrawal. Please." The mother's begging.
"How did this happen? She's eight years old. How did she become thrall?"
The mother breaks down. "I sold her. To pay rent. To buy food. The vampire offered two hundred pounds for her. Promised he'd only feed once. Promised she'd be returned." Tears streaming. "But he gave her three doses. Addicted her. Now she needs blood or she goes into withdrawal. And I can't afford to buy vampire blood. Can't provide what she needs."
I'm looking at this eight-year-old child. Addicted to vampire venom. Because her mother sold her for two hundred pounds. Because poverty forced impossible choice.
"The vampire who did this. Where is he?"
"I don't know. He took the money. Took her. Returned her three days later. Said she was his property now. That she'd need to serve him regularly or die from withdrawal." The mother is sobbing. "I killed my daughter. To pay rent. I killed her."
"She's not dead. She's addicted. That's. different." I'm trying to think through options. "Vampire venom addiction can be treated. It's painful. Takes weeks. But possible."
"I can't afford treatment. Can't afford anything. We're dying and I'm watching it happen." The mother looks at me desperately. "Please. If you can help. anything. I'll do anything."
I take the child. "I'll treat her. Withdrawal management. Addiction therapy. It'll be hard. She'll suffer. But she'll survive."
"How much?"
"Nothing. This isn't transactional. This is humanitarian." I'm angry. At the system. At the vampire. At the poverty that created this situation. "Your daughter didn't commit crime. You didn't commit crime. You both survived impossible situation the only way you could. That's not criminal. That's desperation."
The mother leaves her daughter with me. I start withdrawal treatment immediately.
The child screams. Convulses. Begs for vampire blood. The withdrawal is agony. Physical and psychological torture.
I hold her through it. Keep her restrained. Keep her safe. Keep her alive.
This is what poverty does. Creates situations where parents sell children. Where eight-year-olds become addicted to vampire venom. Where survival requires crimes the law won't excuse.
The system creates the conditions. Then punishes the victims. Then calls it justice.
That evening, I'm documenting cases when Sophie enters.
"We've got another one. Five-year-old child. Bitten. Abandoned by mother who couldn't afford to keep her."
"Where's the mother?"
"Gone. Left the child in an alley. Probably hoped someone would find her. Someone did. Now she's here."
I go to see the child. She's tiny. Five years old. Covered in bite wounds. Freshly turned. First transformation approaching.
She's crying. Terrified. Doesn't understand what's happening to her.
"What's your name?" I ask gently.
"Lucy. Where's my mummy? I want my mummy."
"Your mummy had to leave. But I'm going to help you. Keep you safe. Okay?"
Lucy doesn't understand. She's five. She was bitten. Turned into werewolf. Abandoned. First transformation will happen in days. If she survives that, she's packless wolf for life.
Five years old. And the system's already destroyed her.
I take Lucy to the shelter. Set up special care. She'll need constant supervision. The transformation will be traumatic. Possibly fatal. Five-year-olds don't usually survive first transformation.
But I'll try. I'll do everything I can. Because what else is there?
Sophie helps me prepare. "This is the third child this week. Third parent who couldn't afford to keep a turned child. Third abandonment."
"The system's collapsing. Poverty's getting worse. Parliament's economic pressure is working. Families are making impossible choices." I'm organizing medical supplies. "And we're catching the fallout. The children. The victims. The ones who didn't choose any of this."
"How do we fix it?"
"We don't. Not systematically. Not permanently. We just. help who we can. Save the ones in front of us. Hope that's enough." I look at Lucy. Five years old. Abandoned. Turned. Dying. "Callum's building resistance. Maybe that changes things. Maybe Parliament backs down. Maybe the system reforms. But until then, we help. One child at a time. One victim at a time."
That's all we can do. That's all anyone can do in the Rookeries.
Help the victims the system creates. Save the ones we can. Mourn the ones we can't.
And hope someday the system changes.
But not expecting it to.