by Mark Henwick
It was surrounded on three sides by tall white walls, built in a brutal, monolithic style where the empty windows seemed like tiny points breaking the concrete expanse. Stains ran down the sides and the bottom of the walls were a jungle of lurid graffiti.
The wooden stage itself was attached to the main block. It looked as if a shipment of oversized loudspeakers had crashed there. Haphazardly tumbled together, the speakers dwarfed the band themselves. Projectors turned the wall behind the stage into a seven-story pockmarked screen.
The band was in mid-session when we arrived. I had to admit, they had powerful, driving songs and they’d nailed their audience. The courtyard was like a sea in a storm, filled with leaping, waving bodies. Every last one of them a werewolf, so Billie had said.
Every last one of them male, she might have added, but she knew I was seeing it. Female werewolves were too precious to be allowed to come to this dangerous situation. Shit. No wonder they ran away.
The Belles had closed ranks, but the crowd was too intent on enjoying themselves to notice female werewolves slinking by behind them.
“They always get some guys slipping their leash and changing,” Billie yelled in my ear as we made our way around the back.
She must have been reading my mind. “They have trouble?”
“A little. Always contained. Always enough of them stay sane and sober to keep their friends under control. And the band’s a big pack who keep good control.”
Our group passed behind a long stall at the back that was serving beer.
Werewolves burned it off quickly, so they were busy.
There didn’t look to be any animosity between packs. Given the declared neutral venue, the music and the beer, their natural instinct to claim territory seemed to have taken the night off.
Every pack had a distinct Call, and putting packs close together like this tended to create a discord, reflecting the tension between packs. But sticking them in the audience of a concert actually worked. I sensed all the Calls, and for want of a better phrase, they were in harmony.
We went to one of the old hospital’s side entrances and there the band’s security got tighter: a group of monstrously large guys were on the door, practicing their resting bitch faces.
The appearance of the Belles acted like some magic vanishing cream, and the scowls disappeared while they high-fived with the girls and hopped from foot to foot like school kids on a break.
An escort of slightly smaller guys arrived and we went on in, getting clapped on the back by the guards as we did. Their aim was way off—Haz, Yelena and I collected more than a couple of claps on the butt too.
Alex growled.
“You upset no one tapped your butt?” I asked. He growled some more.
Billie tried to roll her eyes at the guards’ behavior, but irrespective of what the other LA alphas might think about it, Billie and the Belles were popular with the band’s traveling pack. The Belles soaked it up and returned it with interest.
As we made our way deeper into the building, I wondered what it was like for the band to be werewolves and have no territory; to always be a guest of some other pack. They were more friendly than I imagined most packs would be. We had way more roadies than necessary to guide Billie and the rest of us. Our little group seemed to pick up more of them as we went, slowing everything down. It was like walking through mud until you couldn’t lift your feet.
Everyone stopped in what had once been the main lobby: a bleak, wide expanse, with stairs going up and down from this level. What had been the front door was entirely blocked by banks of gas-powered electricity generators, growling away and stinking the place out.
A Were came up trotting up the stairs and went through a forearm-gripping and shoulder-bumping routine with Billie. He had a sense about him—not the aggressive dominance display of a normal alpha, but something confident, quiet and hard. This had to be the band’s alpha.
“M’name’s Cane,” he said to us, his voice scratchy. “Ya bigman posse all waiting downstairs.”
He turned to us. “Deauville?” he asked Alex, who nodded. “Just you and ya woman.”
When Alex started to argue it, he cut across him. “Them down there: one alpha, one lieutenant, no exceptions. The room is sealed off, so no other dudes is hitching in. You two, you co-alpha, still counts as two.”
Cane looked at Haz. “You the one from Albuquerque? You alone, hey. You can take someone.”
The Belles were more than ready to provide someone, but Haz, for all her jealousy and fang-phobia, was a smarter operator than I’d given her credit for.
She looked around. “Billie, I can’t ask the Belles to do any more. But House Farrell is already associated with the Albuquerque pack.” She pointed to Yelena as her second.
With a glance at me to confirm, Yelena subtly changed position to be nearer Haz, muttering to herself.
Thanks to my lessons on Athanate and the fact that the language contained loan words such as ‘grenade’, I had a good idea of what Yelena thought we should do with a roomful of unpredictable LA alphas.
Cane missed that. His nose flared, seeking out more information about this Athanate that Haz had put her trust in.
Billie would have told him I was the famous hybrid. Yelena’s marque matched mine, down to the mix of Were in it. I could see him wondering if there were two hybrids in front of him.
I didn’t care what he thought. This had worked out better than I expected. With Alex and Yelena beside me, I felt secure.
“I’m taking Vig with me,” Billie said, indicating the Scandinavian blonde.
Cane frowned. “This not your party, Billie.”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, you’ve got us here. You’ve done what you said—”
“I wouldn’t miss this for a truckload of beer and a tanker of gas.” Billie waved it off.
Cane shrugged and led us underground to where a double door was guarded by another group of his oversized pack.
He stopped in front of them and held his hands up.
“Okay, dudes, cut time. Bail or boom.” He tapped the floor with his foot. “This here’s neutral territory, everything chill. In there,” he jerked a finger over his shoulder at the door, “you on ya own. Only thing we do is clean house after. ”
“Boom,” Alex said.
Cane smiled slightly as he stood aside and the guards opened the doors. We walked through.
The basement was a long room, extending far under the stage and courtyard where the rest of the LA werewolves were partying.
Cables snaked in, running to four powerful stage lights in the corners.
The room had been cleared, in that all the trash had been shoveled to the side. That left the center open, apart from weird, swelling columns which supported the roof and carried mysterious tubes down their sides. It looked like huge concrete trombones had been jammed between floor and ceiling.
Although the sound from the concert was muted down here, you could feel the heavy bass making the whole building tremble. Dust and flakes of paint floated down from the ceiling like a gentle rain, sparkling in the strong side light.
The alphas and their lieutenants were waiting for us, standing in an arc with a couple of yards between each of the packs.
As we walked in, a storm of angry dominance came lashing off them.
If they’d been coordinated, I suspected I wouldn’t have been able to ride it. But four different alphas all trying to dominate wasn’t four times the dominance.
Taking Alex’s cue, I let it roll over me. I didn’t push back. I didn’t bow my head. I didn’t stop walking until Alex halted and we formed an approximate circle with the waiting alphas.
I kept my eyes on them, but from the edge of my sight, I saw Billie didn’t distance herself from us. She was about an arm’s length away from Haz, who stood close on my right.
I could feel Yelena standing behind us like a drawn blade.
Billie and Vig hadn’t bowed their heads at the dominance display either. I
had the impression they’d die before they bowed to these guys.
The waiting alphas were all big, and none of them happy about being here.
“Well, thank you all for coming,” Billie drawled.
“Get on with it,” the guy in the middle snapped.
Billie smiled, unfazed. “In order, then. This here’s Haseya from the Albuquerque pack. She’s here to tell you they’re building up associations in the south and they want to talk to you. Next to her, Amber and Alex, co-alphas of Pack Deauville out of Colorado. They also want to talk association, but they’re talking on behalf of House Altau as much as themselves.”
“And you? The Belles are looking to join with these packs and Athanate?” The guy asking was on my right, the nearest of the LA alphas.
“We intend to associate,” Billie said, and the satisfaction in her voice made the alphas blink. She used her words carefully. Only a pack with an acknowledged alpha could associate with another. An unled group of werewolves, say one that lost an alpha and had no one to step up, they could only join a pack.
Billie turned her face slightly to us, not actually looking away from the others. “That’s Redondo asking the question. LA style is to call an alpha by the pack name.” Her mouth twisted. “But you all keep calling me Billie.”
She pointed to the remaining alphas around the circle. “Long Beach, Pasadena, Heights.”
There were no bikers on their side. The first three, Redondo, Long Beach and Pasadena, were big bruisers—guys who supplemented the musculature that being a wolf gave them with hard gym time. They were all casually dressed, close enough that it looked like a uniform: big-buckled belts on blue jeans, shit-stomping work boots, dark, tight vests. Their only individuality was in their jackets, all light and bright.
The last one, Heights—well, I wouldn’t have made him as a werewolf unless I got close enough to sense his marque. His clothes were completely different. He wore trendy black jeans and gray sneakers. His long-sleeved yellow shirt was left untucked under a linen blazer. A tweed fedora shaded dark blue eyes and wavy black hair. From what I could separate out, his marque was like his clothes—sharp.
I labeled him ‘unknown’. And maybe ‘dangerous’.
The others: on the surface, I didn’t think we’d have problems with Redondo. Predictably enough, Long Beach and Pasadena weren’t ever going to be my friends. This was looking more like pushing water uphill with every passing minute.
I knew that the slightest mistake I made, they’d leap on it.
Hopefully, Alex and Haz could do all the talking. Stop me from putting my foot in it. And in fact, they were all looking toward Alex. That was fine by me. I wasn’t here to gain their acknowledgment.
But it was Haz who got us started, and that made twice in the evening I realized I’d underestimated her. The biker gear and snarly voice, the jealousy and phobias, they all disguised a woman who thought and spoke clearly when she needed to.
Her alpha, Zane, had sent her specifically to do the talking, and that reinforced my opinion that he was smarter than he made out too.
Great idea. Send someone less outrageous and threatening to start talks with the LA alphas.
How wrong could I be?
“We’re looking for a preliminary agreement today,” Haz said clearly. “Just enough to allow us to continue talking. So, first off, we’d need the right for a couple of us, no more than that, to visit here for more detailed discussion. Your choice of place and time, of course.”
She paused. Redondo and Long Beach were looking at her. Pasadena was looking at Alex. None of them looked happy. Heights was looking at the other three LA alphas, his face unreadable.
“The purpose behind our discussion would be nothing to do with acquiring territory, but defending it. Details would be developed together over time, but at the lowest level of association, it’s our proposal that we should pledge support for each of the other packs in our association against any attempted—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Pasadena said.
It was a deliberate provocation. Even in the same pack, one Were saying that to another was likely to end up in a fight, unless the difference in dominance was huge.
I could feel Haz struggle with the urge to go to her wolf. As a human and a representative of her pack, she had to weigh things that the wolf didn’t care about.
But his attention wasn’t on her.
With a little shiver, I saw he was fixated on Alex, staring at him eye to eye.
In wolf form, Alex would eat him alive. Possibly literally. A formal challenge between alphas would mean they’d go to their wolves and Alex would win. This wasn’t a formal challenge.
Pasadena might also be smarter than he looked. The kind of challenge he was trying to provoke was resolved in human form, for the simple, practical reason that if one Were tried to strip off, or went to wolf without stripping first, then for a fatal second or two, they’d be vulnerable.
And in human form, Pasadena might have the edge. Alex and I sparred. He was good and he was learning quickly, but he simply hadn’t had the years of dirty fighting that I had ingrained into my reflexes.
And if I had it, Pasadena might have it too.
Alex’s best strategy was to make it formal.
The problem with that was the ongoing effect. If he won a formal challenge, Alex would have to take over the Pasadena pack and spend days, if not weeks, fighting challenges.
Pasadena was taking a huge gamble that we didn’t want that.
My chosen strategy was for us to crush him with dominance. He and the others together hadn’t been able to cow us. Either Alex or I alone were more dominant than him, and together, because our dominance amplified each other, we’d be strong enough to bring him to his knees.
I felt my dominance swelling up, boosting off Alex and returning that lift to him.
Pasadena did too. “Going to hide behind your woman, Deauville?”
Alex just smiled.
“Alex! That’s a challenge,” Billie muttered, as if he was missing the point. “You have to respond.”
“No,” Alex drawled. “I don’t have to.”
There was an astonished silence from the Weres. I was a rookie werewolf and even I knew an alpha couldn’t turn away from an insult like that.
The dust dislodged by the band’s bass speakers continued to fall, casting a surreal glitter over the scene.
Pasadena opened his mouth, but Alex hadn’t finished. “Seems someone tried to insult the pack, partner,” he said to me. “It’s kinda beneath me. You want to take it up?”
Oh, Alex. Freaking brilliant.
“Yeah. You’re right. Not worth the time for either of us really, but I missed exercising this evening.” I shook out some kinks in my arms, staring at Pasadena.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull, Deauville?” Pasadena spat. “You think I won’t hurt her because she’s a woman?”
“You won’t hurt her because you won’t be able to, asshole.” Alex stung him, and Billie laughed abruptly, brightly in the tension.
That sealed it; Pasadena lurched forward. He roared, seeming unable to speak, and that told me he was a rage fighter, a berserker. The kind that was dangerous if he succeeded in breaking through my defenses. If he did that, he’d be blind to everything other than the need to inflict damage and pain until I wasn’t able to feel any more.
His rage would give him some physical immunity—he’d be difficult to hurt with body blows. I’d seen a man like him fighting on with a knife blade lodged in his arm, caught between bones.
Still, there would be ways of getting through to him, breaking that berserker shell.
I’d need to be careful. He was stronger and heavier than me. Unpredictable. Fast.
Phantom pains from old fights flitted over my body, warning me.
By style he was more of a boxer or wrestler; he lowered his head like a bull and lifted his shoulders as his hands came up in front of him.
He was already rushing onto me, tryi
ng to overwhelm me. A good tactic when he massed so much more, and any successful blow that he landed was going to do damage.
I danced close and let him swing a couple of times. He missed. He was still in control at the moment; he was attempting to strike within his strength, not putting all his weight behind any one blow.
The real berserker rage, the loss of control, the pummeling, would come once he got the first couple of disabling hits in.
I wasn’t going to let him. Meanwhile, I was learning about him, and he wasn’t learning about me. I wasn’t complaining.
But he was faster than I thought. A fist caught me. I rode it, kept my weight balanced and ghosted aside when he came in to follow up.
Wake up! His obsession with bodybuilding doesn’t make him stupid, or a bad fighter.
He pressed in, managed to hit me with another combination. The blows hurt. I was going to be wearing bruises and I hadn’t tried to hit him yet. I was waiting; I wanted my first strike to be my last.
The man had some skill. With no warning, he changed tactics. He switched stances and jabbed with his left. But that was the opening I’d been looking for.
It was a straight jab; all I needed to do was sway for it to miss.
He came forward and hurled that powerhouse right fist at my body. A blow like that would hurt, but more importantly, with his weight advantage, it would knock me off balance. That was what he was going for.
His problem was that I’d moved. Forward. I’d slipped inside his guard, with my left arm raised. That let his blow get through, but he was too close. He struck me on the ribs with his wrist and forearm. He was strong and it still hurt, but nothing like what I was going to do to him.
His mouth was open in surprise. I did two things at once: I whipped my arm down, trapping his against my ribs, and I head-butted him in the nose.
Forehead bone is like concrete, especially mine. A nose is a delicate little flower, and I mashed his like I’d flattened a bug.
Even a fighter who can absorb dozens of painful blows to the body finds it difficult to ignore something literally in his face.
And while he was just discovering how stunningly painful a broken nose could be, I twisted his arm, forcing his trapped elbow across his body. And then up. His body went into reflex action and he was up on tiptoe. His balance was all wrong when I pushed from my firmer base.
