by Chanel Smith
One thing was certain, that those Italians were experts in death and destruction. Weres were experts in life and the living of it to the best of their abilities. Yes, Weres could bring war with ferocity, but what chance against a group this large, this loyal, and this lacking in any mores at all?
His eyes fell on the two Samurai seated at his table. Samurais were warriors beyond estimation, that much Raya knew just from his dealings with Itchiko. He now was almost certain that Itchiko had deliberately withheld certain things from the pack, perhaps methods sacred to the Samurai or those that would shock a pack of wolves.
He had to know if that was true, so he stopped in front of the table and looked at the two Weres. “Itchiko, truth now. Have you been holding out on us? Seems to me that Samurai warriors have ways and means of dealing with enemies that Pack Lupeinescu has never dreamed of or seen. That true?”
The Samurai slowly grinned, and it wasn’t a happy grin. It was full of sheer menace, and changed Itchiko’s face to something quite alien to Raya. “There might be a thing or two that never came up,” he admitted.
“Never needed to come up,” Iwabari clarified. “But now things have changed. We’re happy to share with you the fullness of customs we’ve learned and practiced for years, if your stomach is up to it.”
The slight challenge wasn’t lost on the Trans-Alpha. The grin he returned was no less frightening that that he responded to. “I’d say we’re about even in the stomach-turning department. There is much you don’t know about me, either.”
His grin dropped as a certain memory surfaced, something he hadn’t thought of in years and had hoped to have expunged from his mind permanently. The small movement wasn’t lost on either Samurai.
“Raya, if it’s anything that can aid us in this upcoming war, we need to know now,” Itchiko gently pressed.
“I-I don’t know if I can—that is, I’m not sure I can speak of it even now,” a shaken Raya admitted. He could barely stand to think of that day, one day out of so many centuries. But a day that would forever blacken Raya’s image of himself. He’d gone against everything he’d ever believed, and for what? A woman. But worse had come, on that one day when he’d felt a hatred beyond anything he’d imagined possible. He’d loathed that individual with an almost-physical passion: and every time the man laid his large hands on that woman in anger, Raya’s rage had risen. He’d been Were for only seventy years then, and was still unsure of right and wrong, still didn’t understand Were powers.
Until the day that bastard had knocked his female unconscious with one lazy fist, and Raya had literally seen red. He’d been seated halfway down the table, the bastard in his usual place at the far end. When the rage had hit, it had literally overtaken him: seeing red was the final stage. And when that had worn off, he’d seen something that had burned into his brain forever. The bastard slumped over onto his spilled beer, blood seeping from one ear, dead. Raya knew one thing: he’d done it. How he’d done it was a mystery, but killed a man he had done.
That’s when he’d recalled the fourth power of the Were, the one no Were will discuss. And that’s the day he’d realized that that fourth power was his.
Now, it took all of Itchiko’s Samurai abilities not to show the shock on his face. He’d never seen this side of his brother. “Whatever it is, it’s always best shared where others may aid in bearing your burden.”
Raya’s entire body shook like a wolf exiting a stream. “I can’t speak of it yet, I simply can’t. However, I can provide a small demo.” He turned on his heel and made for the stairs. Just before he took the first step, he looked over his shoulder at his two dearest friends. “Read the paper tomorrow.” On that brief note, he climbed the stairs and headed for the warmth of Petra’s arms.
Itchiko and Iwabari were left staring at each other, dumbfounded.
“Read the damn paper?” Iwabari spoke first.
“That’s what the Trans commanded,” Itchiko said slowly. “And he never commands anything without sufficient reason.”
The next morning, both Weres met on their way to the front door to get the paper. Neither had slept, waiting for this moment. Curious as hell, but also in the hopes that there would be something, anything that would make a difference in that shortly-upcoming war.
Once the paper was opened to the front page and set on the table, both Weres looked down and began reading. Within seconds they’d seen what they were both sure Raya had intended them to.
“About that last power werewolves have,” Iwabari began. “You ever known anyone who—?”
“No.” Itchiko said, his voice completely flat. “In all these centuries, I’ve never even known of a wolf who had that power.”
Both Weres went silent, reading the rest of that morning’s leading story. Don Gambini’s eldest son, his pride and joy who had been groomed to step into his famous father’s shoes and take over the family business, had suddenly dropped dead around 6:30AM during his morning jog. A robust man in his early thirties, he’d had no known medical conditions and doctors were at a loss to explain his demise. More information would hopefully be forthcoming after the autopsy was complete, the article said. In the meantime, the Don himself was in deepest mourning. A picture of a lovely mansion with black bows on the door and every window accompanied the piece.
“Just dropped dead during his morning jog,” Itchiko mused.
“Healthy as a horse by all appearances,” Iwabari added as footsteps trotted down the stairs.
Raya entered the kitchen and it was evident by the circles under his eyes that he hadn’t slept, either.
“How long you been up?” Itchiko casually asked.
Crossing to the coffee pot, Raya stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, then continued walking as if nothing had happened. “I took a brief nap from two to five,” he admitted as he reached the pot and poured himself a mug. “You two want coffee?”
“You must be exhausted,” Itchiko teased him. “We drink tea as you well know.”
“Must have slipped my mind,” Raya muttered.
“Along with telling your brother about any special werewolf power you may happen to have,” Itchiko said softly.
Raya’s hand, pouring the coffee, went still. The coffee filled the mug and overflowed to the counter.
“I think your mug is full,” Iwabari said with no inflection in his voice.
To both seated Were’s shock, Raya spun and threw his mug against the far brick wall with such force that it literally exploded on contact. Shards of glass and hot coffee shot throughout the kitchen, but neither Were so much as ducked.
“Feel better now?” Itchiko ventured.
“Fuck no,” Raya responded, bitterness in his voice and visible on his tightly-strung body, where every muscle stood out.
“Gifts are given for a reason,” Itchiko finally said.
“Gift? Gift?? You dare to sit there and call this abomination a GIFT?” every hair on Raya’s body stood straight on end, so strong was his sense of self-loathing.
“That’s quite enough,” Iwabari’s usually-soft voice rang out sharply through the kitchen. Both of the other Weres jumped and stared in surprise, even Itchiko. “You’ll not fry yourself with guilt over a gift—yes, a gift you were given for a very specific reason. You’ll come to terms with it and damn fast too. We need that gift if we are to survive, you hearing me, Trans-Alpha?” His tone of voice was that of a commander facing his army of thousands. It brooked no dissent. “In fact, I’d have to say you’ve been slacking on your training because you sure as hell haven’t ever trained using this particular power, have you?”
At Raya’s mute head-shake, Iwabari barreled on. “So that’s first on your list. Practice. God knows you have plenty of targets—those assholes are more numerous than ants. So this is what needs to be done, make no mistake: we need to know how far this power reaches, or if there is even a limit on distance. We need to know if you can hit a certain part of the body, causing death by stopping the heart, causing a clot to
go to the brain, any number of things.” He stopped for a moment. “Mainly we need to know that you have the balls to use this incredible power as it was meant to be used: for the protection of your pack, your entire race perhaps. So. You in?”
Raya stared at that implacable Japanese face. People said they all looked alike... that was bullshit. This man bore no relation to Itchiko whatsoever. There was zero emotion behind Iwabari’s face, Raya could sense it. He spoke of killing and death as if it were an outing to the goddamn zoo. It made Raya nervous, very nervous. Why should he—
“We need an answer and soon, too,” Itchiko cut into his thoughts. “If you’re ready, we need to begin your training now. Not soon, right now. This war isn’t going to wait while you get your shit together and decide how you’re going to fight, Raya. It’s going to arrive when you least expect it and how you least expect it. That man just lost his son. He might be grieving, but he’s well aware of Weres and their powers: likely he even knows about that gift of yours. He could put two and two together, figure out exactly who just killed his favorite son, the one he’s trained since birth to run that family. Just what kind of response do you think a goddamn Italian will make to that kind of situation?” His voice whipped through the air like a knife, but Raya didn’t notice.
He was staring at the ceiling, where Petra was still peacefully asleep.
The Italian’s response was obvious, if he guessed who had done the deed or even had the vaguest thought in that direction. He’d send the entire Family’s numerous resources directly after what Raya himself held most dear, and that knowledge was quite public.
His beloved alpha mate who was blissfully asleep, unaware of the possibility that she was Enemy Number one on an Italian mob family’s hit list.
A thousand thoughts ran through Raya’s mind at once. Petra, standing outside the Countess’s tower room with disgust on her face. Running through the woods at his side, nipping him with joy from time to time. Making love in so many different places but each time finding the other half of his soul.
Her loss was not to be contemplated.
He turned and faced the two Japanese, and there was something in his face that even Itchiko had never seen: a cold, implacable fury bordering on hatred.
Raya’s eyes lasered in on those of Itchiko, a man who’d become more than a brother. Almost like a mixture of father and brother. Someone the Trans-Alpha trusted above everyone barring his mate, Petra. “Right. I’ll need a list of names and faces to practice with, and we need to do this far from Heureuse. I want Heureuse empty in three hours, no more. Pack Lupeinescu is to go underground at once under Emergency Procedure one, as outlined in the Codec. Itchiko Toshio, as of this very moment I proclaim you Alpha Prime of Pack Lupeinescu.”
The other man’s face blanched, and he opened his mouth to protest.
“Itchiko Toshio, do you accept that your life is nothing against that of the pack?” Raya’s voice continued, brooking no interruption.
Itchiko knew when he was beaten. “With all my heart.”
“Do you accept the mantle of leadership however heavy it may weigh?”
“With all my heart.”
In an instant Raya shifted and dropped to his belly at Itchiko’s feet. “I offer my services as Pack Protector to the Alpha of Pack Lupeinescu and I pray they be accepted,” he sent to Itchiko’s mind as he placed his large head on the new Alpha’s bare foot.
For the briefest of moments Itchiko was silent. Then he responded automatically, “As Alpha of Pack Lupeinescu, I accept your service, your sword and your claws. Now rise, Raya, Pack Protector.”
Raya stood, looked around slowly for a moment as if memorizing everything. He then turned toward the door, opened it and vanished.
The new Alpha of Pack Lupeinescu looked at Iwabari. “That didn’t go very well,” he finally said.
“On the contrary, it couldn’t have gone better. Come on, we have a lot of people to move: a pack to save, a war to wage. Time to off-ass, Alpha of Pack Lupeinescu.”
For a split second Itchiko looked around as if to see who Iwabari was addressing: he was still shocked to his very soul. But then he took in a long, deep breath and pulled centuries of Samurai training around him like a blanket. He stood, every inch the Alpha he’d been before and now was again, and shifted in preparation for the first move he’d make as Alpha. Seconds later, a long, rising howl ripped through the night in Heureuse, waking every Were instantly.
Even as the howl trailed off to silence, footsteps began pounding in all directions as the pack made immediate preparations to leave. No one so much as questioned the new Alpha. Only one Were hesitated to move, to leave her bed. Petra was completely lost and confused.
For the first time since they’d officially mated, she no longer was connected to Raya by the Alpha thread. Therefore she had no idea where he was—but then she recalled Itchiko’s howl. In a matter of moments, she was dressed with her backpack on. She ran out onto their expansive third floor deck, stepped onto the railing and leaped for a branch not far away. Caught it, and was shifting just before she hit the ground.
Nose in air, she took off at incredible speeds. Now and then she was distantly surprised that he was still on foot, but she had to focus with all her might to keep on his rapidly-disintegrating trail.
Within half an hour she realized he was heading directly for downtown New Orleans, running horizontally next to the road. What on earth was so important there? His scent was steadily more difficult to follow as it floated directly into the busiest part of the city, the famous French quarter.
Thankfully, he’d entered the famous Louis XV hotel. Seconds later she wondered why she’d ever thought to be thankful over such a thing, as the hotel was large, absolutely packed with wealthy clients each of whom wore at least one entire bottle of French perfume. All told, the lobby smelled like a very expensive bordello.
Concentrate, Petra. Scent is lower to ground. Already woefully underdressed, she made a further fool of herself by going to her hands and knees as if searching for something. Success was instant: he’d moved down a corridor that dog-legged right. Regaining her feet, Petra saw the discreet sign at the opening of the corridor: “”Gambini family reunion in Scarlett Room.”
Of course Raya’d not be in that room, but where in hell would he be? She stopped and really paid attention to her surroundings. The hotel was lovely, a perfect example of antebellum south architecture. The “Scarlett Room” was square, with a raised table along the back. The walls rose two stories to a small balcony just under the fantastic ceiling, which rose to a rounded ball through which light would flood during the day. Recessed lighting now pinpointed painted details such as horse-drawn carriages, a lady in white gloves descending—what was she doing, playing the tourist now? Christos she’d lost her mind.
One detail stood out, though. That small balcony. She instinctively knew Raya would be there, if he wasn’t already. How was she to find the door with steps leading to that balcony? She looked around and doors were everywhere. Of course they lined both sides of the corridor, but there were eight more in the Scarlett Room alone. Who knew how many other doors there were in other rooms? It would be a huge waste of time opening each, time Petra instinctively knew she didn’t have.
Then along came salvation in the form of a maid in a grey uniform. Petra invented a smooth story about being a photographer for that rich Italian: her camera and gear was in a bag in the car. First she had to locate the steps to that damn balcony, as the client had demanded his pictures be taken from there. Petra shook her head in disgust.
“Anything to make my job harder. Does he give a damn I have to haul that crap up all those steps? Hell no he doesn’t. Like to see his aged ass haul a glass of water up there.”
“Know what you mean,” the maid commiserated. “You wouldn’t believe what them folks just ordered, so help me. And the hotel’s motto is “Never say no!””
“What did they want?” Petra was interested in spite of herself.
/> The older woman grinned, showing gaps where teeth had been. “Oh, nothing much. Just a fucking parade down the center of the hotel in the old guy’s honor. Like Mardi Gras, you know,” she said, deliberately pronouncing the ‘s’ in ‘Gras’.
Both women cracked up with laughter. When they’d sobered, the maid slipped Petra a keycard. “Be careful, woman. I got me a bad feeling—there’s bad juju in there.”
Petra located the door and flew up the steps, feeling guilty she’d wasted time yet knowing it had gained her the key she’d needed. And she’d been right, as Raya was directly in front of the low, ornamental white railing.
The table was as described, and in the center was a thin old man who was talking, “...the loss of my son. My son! Everything I’ve built, everything this family stands for—all of it was done so that my son Angelo could step in and run this family as if I were still here.” He covered his mouth with a bony hand, yet a half-sob still escaped. The woman at his left put her hand over his other one where it lay on the table. The Don, for that was undoubtedly who they were watching, shook the woman’s hand off like it was a turd someone had dropped on his own hand as he continued speaking passionately. “And now? I have a handful of nothing to leave the Family to, to trust our Family in the hands of. Yes there’s Joey, does anyone here want to see Joey running any part of this family?”
There was muffled laughter throughout the large room, but Petra had stopped concentrating on the insane rant and was focused on Raya’s body language. The more the old Don said, the tighter Raya’s body became until finally every muscle stood out like those of a body builder, but this was from sheer nerves and stress.
“The harm done this day—we’ll learn who was responsible, we always do. Our eyes and ears are everywhere. And when we know, that someone will pay. Or someones. It had to be more than one person: it took a city to destroy my son.” he paused. “No. It took an entire fucking STATE! And that’s who’s going to pay, you mark my words. It will be as if New Jersey had never been on the map. It will be gone, whssst—gone I tell you! Every man, woman, child, even their fucking cats: all of it turned to dust like my Angelo.” A clear sob. “My Angelo, my child.”
