by Laura Taylor
The northern camp was the most remote camp in the forest, hidden deep in a gully where even the most determined hikers found access difficult, and as far from human settlement as it was possible to get in England.
It was also a dark, dank space where everything was constantly wet and leeches were plentiful, sunlight rarely making it to the ground even on a clear day, and there was a round of grumbling as everyone made their objections known.
“Damned Il Trosa!”
“They’d take every camp from us if they could!”
“Can’t stop causing trouble.”
“How about we show up on their doorstep and camp there, since they keep screwing things up for us here?”
“Or we could just turn Il Trosa over to the Noturatii and be done with it,” Genna muttered… and was surprised when the pack suddenly fell silent around her.
“What did you say?” Sempre asked, looking at her like she’d just grown a second head, and Genna felt a wave of embarrassment as she realised that the entire pack had just heard her throw-away comment. But now that she had centre stage, why not make the most of it?
“Well, you know where their estate is,” Genna pointed out, not understanding why it was such a strange idea. “It couldn’t be too hard to let the Noturatii know where it is, and then Il Trosa is no longer our problem.”
Sempre looked at her like she’d just suggested the woman remove her own liver and eat it for breakfast. “You stupid girl,” she said, in a tone so cold Genna felt the blood drain from her face. “You know nothing of our culture, or our history.” Sempre stalked towards her, face red with anger, and it took all of Genna’s courage to stand her ground, when all she really wanted to do was run away and hide. “The Treaty of Erim Kai Bahn expressly forbids such a thing. What the hell do you think would happen if Il Trosa announced our location to the Noturatii? If one pack ever betrays another, the treaty is broken, and we may as well hand ourselves in to the Noturatii, line up and ask them to shoot us all!”
“What? Why? Why would the loss of one pack make a difference?” Genna had never heard of this treaty. She’d been with the pack for less than six months, converted in a rush before her official training period had been completed, and apparently there were important parts of shifter culture and history that the Grey Watch had yet to teach her about.
“If we betray the Lakes District Den,” Sempre said, her tone condescending and impatient, “then the Council will get wind of it, and immediately betray us to the Noturatii. And then any Grey Watch pack from anywhere in Europe could take offence at that, and betray another Il Trosa pack, who will get revenge by betraying a Grey Watch pack, and the whole thing spirals into chaos until there are no shifters left. The Treaty was set up to prevent that exact kind of stupidity. When it was signed in 1437, it was expressly forbidden that any shifter pack should ever betray another to the Noturatii. We may fight amongst ourselves, kill each other, take revenge for a thousand perceived slights, but against the Noturatii, we are allies. For all Il Trosa’s stupidity and recklessness, we stand as a united front against a common enemy. Never, ever forget that.”
Genna nodded obediently, suddenly eager to be back in her wolf form as she felt her face heat. But it wasn’t from embarrassment. Her gut churned as she realised that she had made a terrible, terrible mistake, and she felt rather faint at the enormity of what she had done.
After the attack on their pack, Genna had been horrified by the powers of Fenrae-Ul, the ease with which she could destroy a shifter, and had seen the woman as their greatest and most immediate threat. And so, in an effort to get rid of her, she’d sought help from the Noturatii themselves, had sold them information about the whereabouts of Il Trosa’s Den, in exchange for assurances that they would kill the girl when they found her. It had seemed a simple, clever solution to a confounding problem.
Only now, it turned out it was nowhere near that simple. It seemed that, rather than helping her pack and assuring a more stable future for them, she had instead broken an ancient treaty – a treaty no one had ever told her about! – and in doing so, should she ever be discovered, she had risked an internal war amongst her own species that could get them all killed.
Oblivious to the cause of her apprehension, Sempre spun away from her and faced the rest of the pack. “Gather your things. Remove all traces of our presence from this camp. I want everyone ready to move in one hour. And Lita?” she snapped to an elderly woman hanging on the fringes of the clearing. “See to it that Genna is educated in the finer details of the Treaty. The girl’s ignorance has been tolerated for quite long enough.”
CHAPTER THREE
In his temporary bedroom in the manor at Misty Hills, the estate that the Lakes District Den called home, Andre stood under the shower spray, letting the near-scalding water cascade over his back, relieved that his latest assignment was drawing to a close. It had been nearly two weeks since the Den had carried out their assault on the Noturatii lab, the operation an unmitigated success, as they had safely recovered Tank, one of the most senior wolves in the Den, blown the lab sky high, and escaped without a single casualty.
But the fallout from the battle was still being dealt with, as many of the Den’s members were still carrying injuries, and Tank was struggling to recover from the torture he had endured while being held captive.
Andre himself had been working overtime, helping to return one of the Noturatii’s other captives to her home, a young woman they had rescued from the lab who had been forcefully converted into a shifter, and then separated from the wolf again in a ground-breaking exercise that had been completed by Dee Carman, the Den’s newest member, with a most unique talent. In addition to that, they’d had to deal with a traitor within their own ranks, Dee’s boyfriend Mark, who had secretly infiltrated the lab late last year, and who had subsequently been demoted to the rank of omega and branded with a traitor’s mark as punishment for his treason.
Finding a moment to unwind and take stock of the whole situation had been hard, and Andre let the hot water continue to run down his body, easing aching muscles and blocking out the rest of the world for a few precious minutes.
Finally he was ready to emerge, checking his healing wounds as he towelled himself off, rubbing his shoulder-length hair to stop it dripping down his shoulders. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he headed into the bedroom, then paused as he saw the flashing alert on his laptop. A few clicks of the mouse later, and he was reading a message that sent chills down his spine. ‘Call us. Now.’ It was from the Council, the shifters’ Italy based control centre, and it was as laconic as usual, the Council unwilling to send any important information through unsecure channels. But the message was imperative, nonetheless, so Andre grabbed a shirt and threw it on, not bothering with trousers as he took a seat in the chair in front of the computer. Then he spent a couple of minutes setting up a secure, encrypted connection to the Council.
His request for a video call was answered immediately. A long table came into view, the Council’s twelve members staring at him from the screen with severe expressions.
No, not twelve. There were only eleven people seated at the long table in Il Trosa headquarters.
Eleanor, the oldest and longest running member of the Council, cleared her throat, her face pale, her aging form shaking ever so slightly.
“What’s happened?” Andre asked without even saying hello. He had never seen the woman so upset.
“Amedea is dead,” Eleanor said simply, and Andre felt himself pale. Amedea was an Italian woman in her forties, one of the younger members of the Council. For her to have died so young could mean one of only two things. Either she had been murdered, or…
“She committed suicide last night,” Eleanor said grimly, “to safeguard the secrets of our species. May she find glory in the House of Sirius.”
“May she find glory,” Andre repeated. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Why?”
“We had a situation in Italy a few weeks ago. We
thought we had contained it adequately, but clearly we made some mistakes.”
She went on to tell Andre the whole story. A prominent politician had somehow become involved with the Noturatii. A little too involved, it seemed. He’d started channelling funds into their cause, lending services to the group to assist them in their quest to exterminate the shifters, and so the Council had had to intervene. An assassin had been sent to kill the man – a dangerous and delicate mission, but the Council’s assassins were some of the best trained operatives in the entire world. Andre could vouch for that personally, being one of them himself.
But the hit had gone wrong. Though the assassin had succeeded in killing his target, he had also been discovered – a known risk, given the high security presence around the man. So, as dictated by the oath he had sworn when enlisted to serve the Council, he had promptly swallowed the capsule of poison that every assassin – and every Council member – kept in a ring on their left hand. The lethal dose had rendered him lifeless in less than three seconds.
But the Noturatii’s reach was longer and more insidious than the Council could have predicted, and after weeks of investigations, under the guise of a ‘police inquiry’, they had somehow linked the dead assassin to Amedea.
The situation had been a dire emergency. With one of the Council exposed, there was the firm risk that she could be linked to the rest of them. And so Amedea had taken herself swiftly out of the equation. It was an act of reckless bravery, and also a sacred responsibility for each and every Councillor. Their ultimate duty was to ensure the safety of the shifter species, and upon joining the Council, each member swore an oath to forfeit their own life should they be at risk of exposing their secrets.
It was a stark tragedy… but Andre soon discovered that the reason for the Council’s call was more complex than just breaking the bad news.
“The immediate complication from this is that you won’t be able to return to Italy in the near future,” Eleanor told him apologetically. “I know you would have liked to attend the funeral, but with the political environment the way it is, we’ve temporarily banned all movements into and out of the country. In a few weeks this should blow over, but for the moment you’ll have to stay in England.”
Andre nodded obediently. Remaining here for a while longer wasn’t a problem. But then Eleanor went on.
“There are also two other reasons we would like you to stay. We have a couple of assignments for you…”
25 Years Ago
Andre walked into the library of the Lakes District manor, his heart in his throat. The Council emissary had arrived just six days ago to assess Andre’s development and education, a process that normally took weeks, and this meeting had come far sooner than he had anticipated. At fifteen years old, and as the adopted son of a shifter couple, he was rapidly approaching the age where he would be considered for conversion – an event that couldn’t come soon enough, as far as Andre was concerned – and he was terrified that the emissary had discovered something undesirable about him, something faulty that would jeopardise his future in Il Trosa. The wolf shifters were more than just a family to him – they were his pack, though he wasn’t yet a wolf himself, his comrades, his friends, his entire world. To become one of them would be the highest honour that could possibly be bestowed upon him, and to be denied the opportunity to become a wolf was the most devastating disaster he could imagine.
His parents were already sitting at the long table, opposite the emissary, all of their faces stern and serious, and Andre fought to keep his expression calm and neutral. He took a seat, putting his hands in his lap to hide the fact that they were shaking.
“Adriana has some news for you,” his mother said softly, offering the emissary a tight smile. His father said nothing, but Andre saw him take his mother’s hand beneath the table, and his anxiety only got worse.
“Don’t be nervous,” Adriana said, no doubt having noticed his apprehension. “This is nothing to be worried about. Quite the opposite, actually.”
Andre tried to relax, curiosity gnawing at him about what he could have done in so short a time that warranted such attention. But one did not question a Council emissary. And Andre was far too polite to risk antagonising one of the most elite members of their society.
“Before I came here, I was fully briefed on your progress,” Adriana went on. “Lidia reports that you’ve been completing your lessons at an impressive pace. Heron says you’ve displayed a remarkable enthusiasm for your studies into shifter history and culture, and Raven thinks your combat skills have improved significantly over the past year.”
Andre couldn’t help but glow at the praise. Like all children of Il Trosa, Andre had been home-schooled, and along with the usual lessons in English, Maths and Science that any normal teenager would receive during their time at school, he had had additional hurdles to overcome during his adolescent years. With the Noturatii an ever-present threat, shifter children began learning hand to hand combat from the tender age of ten, they were taught to use their first firearm at the age of twelve, and by the time they were sixteen – the minimum age at which conversion into a shape shifter was permitted – they were expected to be able to survive a one-on-one battle with a Noturatii operative, whether that fight involved fists, knives or even guns.
And in addition to that, they were also expected to have mastered the various aspects of shifter culture, memorising each and every chant for the sacred rituals, learning the history of the four bloodlines, studying the Treaty of Erim Kai Bahn and the origins of the Endless War, which had begun in the 1400s and continued to rage to this day.
Andre had thrown himself into his lessons with vigour, genuinely captivated by the history and culture of his people, eager to take his place in the war and to do his part in securing a stable future for their species. It was heartening to know that his efforts had not gone unnoticed.
But if his studies were all going so well, then what was this meeting about?
“But since coming here and meeting you in person, I’ve had to re-evaluate your progress,” Adriana continued, and Andre’s heart rate kicked up a notch. Had he missed something? Had he failed at some task, or disappointed one of his tutors in a way that had escaped his attention?
“It seems,” Adriana said, choosing her words carefully, “that you are not just a dedicated student and talented fighter.” She fixed him with a steely look, and Andre fought not to squirm under her scrutiny. “It has become apparent that you are, in fact, an unusually gifted child. Most teenagers would not reach your level of study, nor your skills in combat, until they were at least eighteen. Some of them not even then. To say that your progress has been remarkable would be a significant understatement.”
Andre held his breath. Such praise, coming from a Council emissary, was a rare thing, and the only reason he could think of for this meeting was that perhaps she was going to let him be converted early. The idea had his heart speeding up in excitement.
“The Council has taken notice of your abilities. So they would like to extend an invitation to you and your family. The decision is entirely yours, and it comes with a great deal of responsibility – certainly not a decision to be made lightly. But if you are willing, we would like you to come to Italy, and to be trained for a position in service to the Council.”
Present Day
Andre fought to banish the memories from his first dealings with the Council. The images were as clear in his mind as if they had happened yesterday, two long weeks passing before he had finally decided to accept the emissary’s invitation and his family had bade farewell to their Den and moved to Italy. It had been a difficult, if exhilarating time of his life, but for the moment, he had far more important things to attend to.
He’d arranged a meeting with Caroline and Baron, to deliver his news to them, and they had assembled in the library. How many discussions had taken place around this table, Andre wondered as he took a seat. How many decisions made, lives altered by the words spoken from this
very chair?
“I received a call from the Council this morning,” he began, once Caroline and Baron were settled. “And they had some bad news.” He outlined the details of the situation in Italy, the attack on the politician, the death of the assassin and then of Amedea, and the two alphas reacted with the predictable shock such news warranted. Baron gritted his teeth and folded his arms, looking like he wanted to punch something, while Caroline’s eyes reflected a fiery rage, her fingers toying with the hilt of the dagger strapped to her side. But neither one said anything, waiting patiently for him to finish his report.
“The Council has placed a ban on all travel into and out of Italy,” Andre concluded long minutes later, “so I’m going to have to impose on your hospitality a while longer. And as far as the rest of the Den is concerned, that is the full extent of the situation. Travel is too dangerous right now, so I’m to remain here.” The explanation was no lie, and would be serious enough to quell any concerns within the shifter ranks – having a Council assassin hanging around the estate tended to make people nervous, and to keep the peace they tried to make such visits as short as possible.
“But there is an additional reason I’ve been asked to stay. Which you must not tell anyone else about.”
