Shifter Wars: Supernatural Battle (Werewolf Dens Book 1)

by Kelly St Clare

  The Luthers gathered in small clusters, crouching over something. I studied the protective rings around the clusters.

  “Something is going on down there, Herc.”

  A surging rumble tore my sight from them.

  From the mid-levels, stewards released nets filled with small boulders. The boulders rolled, crashing over the tiers. I jerked bodily as a female werewolf was caught square in the face. She was out for the count.

  I relaxed as another female caught her.

  “She’ll heal in a matter of hours. Don’t feel sorry for them, Andie, and don’t underestimate their kind. Not ever. They will tear you apart the second you do.”

  Either side of the quarry, werewolves scaled the cliffs, regaining momentum as the last of the boulders thundered to the bottom. I grimaced as a Luther reached a steward trapped in a net and shot her point-blank.

  Herc was right. I had to eradicate my instinctive reactions. The werewolves didn’t register on any scale I possessed and underestimating them would land me with a dart in the face or worse.

  “There’s a chance she’ll wake up in time,” Pascal said. “If a steward can get to her, they’ll administer a sedative reversal.”

  “We can’t free them from the nets though?”

  “Yes, but in this exposed setting, moving to help her isn’t advisable. Usually, it’s not a great idea anyway. Some wolves will lurk around trapped stewards in the hopes of trapping a second.”

  The clustered groups of Luthers were moving back. “What’s happening down there?”

  Herc shifted his focus. “Some surprise.”

  A high-pitched whirring whined beneath the snarls and thud of wolves punching into the sandstone.

  What was that?

  Drones shot into the sky. A hair-raising howl went up, and the climbing werewolves rolled behind stacks of sandstone. Those on the opposite cliffs disappeared entirely from view.

  “Fuck,” Herc hissed, snatching for his walkie-talkie. “Take cover!”

  High in the sky, and just below our position in the hide, the drones whined, spinning rapidly. I gasped as darts flew from them in every direction.

  Oh, shit!

  The drones emptied, their spin halting as their operators called them back to the ground.

  The first stewards began to fall, the ropes connecting them to the cliffs preventing a fall to certain death.

  Blue flags rose.

  One, two, three…

  Within minutes there were ten—with more going up every few seconds. Beside me, Herc was still.

  “The howl,” he said. “I’ve never heard them howl in two-legged form.”

  Pascal hunched over her screen. “No unusual activity from the heat sensors.”

  Herc’s expression was grim as he gripped the rail.

  The tribe couldn’t afford to lose Sandstone. That would put them at one grid to the werewolf’s four. I was just entering this battle and losing made me feel sick to my stomach. I couldn’t imagine what Herc felt like right now.

  “We’ll have to do it,” he said, straightening.

  Pascal was hard at work, but she lowered her tablet at his words. “You’re sure?”

  His face was hard—almost as savage as the wolves faces below, and I tried to imagine my joyful, broken mother with the same expression. I tried to imagine her clinging to the rockface, remaining as still as possible before opening fire on a werewolf.

  I just couldn’t.

  But she’d done that. For years. More than a decade before she left.

  Did I ever really know my mum?

  Herc picked up the walkie-talkie.

  All the werewolves were climbing now. Heart in throat, I watched as they flooded over the lower level, up, up, up to the middle terraces.

  Herc exhaled. “Operation Charise. Initiate.”

  At once, his stewards moved in a synchronised wave on the cliffs that rivalled the fluid nature of the werewolves’ actions.

  Note: Learn the operations. Just one more thing to add to the list.

  “Cover your ears, Andie,” Herc said, drawing a remote from his vest.

  What was that for?

  I obeyed. Pascal did the same.

  That wasn’t for a bomb, right? It seemed kind of like a bomb remote.

  Herc spoke into his walkie-talkie. “North clear?”

  He pressed a finger to his ear, and I noticed the black bud in there for the first time.

  “South clear?” he asked next.

  I scanned the south border of the quarry, watching as the last steward scrambled over the top of the cliff and into the forest.

  The werewolves knew something was up. Some slowed before another howl had them pick up their pace to reach the top.

  I hoped Herc knew what he was doing. Relinquishing that top tier made no sense. We’d be weaker anywhere else.

  Herc nodded to the voices in his ear and spoke into the walkie-talkie again. “Cleared. Operation Charise initiating in three, two…”

  He pushed the black button on the remote, and I shouted as a series of coughs puffed from the top cliff faces. Earth-deep groans rolled over each other as the entire ground shook with jaw-rattling intensity.

  The middle tier of the quarry disintegrated, and a heavy chunk slid downward slow, faster, until an avalanche of sandstone hurtled to the bottom.

  In horror, I watched the werewolves scramble for cover, their yells and screams barely audible over the awful crashing below.

  “Penalty. Three. Four! Illegal shifts,” Pascal shouted frantically.

  I jerked my focus from the scene as any wolf below the middle tier was buried in stone. Above the avalanche level, four wolves stood with their hackles raised. I shivered, glad beyond measure I wasn’t close to fully appreciate their size.

  The last of the boulders thudded to a heavy, decisive stop and a sickening silence blanketed the quarry.

  Herc spoke smoothly into his walkie-talkie as though he hadn’t just buried nearly seven hundred wolves alive. “Open fire. Over.”

  The stewards appeared in short measure, taking out the Luthers perched on the top tier peering down at the carnage.

  All except one.

  As werewolves around him dropped like flies, one two-legged Luther dodged the darts flying toward him, climbing the last cliff face with blurring speed.

  He alone made it to the top, proceeding to shoot two stewards.

  “Who is he?” I asked, unable to tear my eyes from the one-man army.

  Herc sighed. “Sascha Greyson. Here.”

  I accepted the binoculars, honing on the werewolf—who now wrapped a steward in a net, batting away the man’s punches with ease.

  The guy was huge.

  Dressed in a black singlet and dark jeans, his muscles bulged as he threw a charging steward aside, unloading a dart into their rolling form.

  Sinking to a crouch, the two-legged creature spun to face three stewards running toward him.

  My mouth dried as I stared at the man’s—the werewolf’s—face.

  Lowering the binoculars, I met Herc’s steady blue gaze. “That’s not Sascha Greyson. That’s Alarick.”

  16

  I punched the pad, setting my teeth.

  “You seem… angry,” Rhona noted, nearly stumbling back with the force of my hit.

  I grunted. Correct.

  The name switch shouldn’t bother me. The Alarick and Sascha thing. But it did—more so, since I learned Alarick was the fake alias.

  Why did he lie? I wasn’t even a threat back then—unless he counted my similarity to Rhona as reason enough.

  “Just tired,” I told her as the timer went off.

  Gerry, the old trainer, nodded, moving to where Wade and Cameron sparred at a far higher level. I winced as Wade smashed his fist downward, just missing the intended target as Cameron shifted her head to the left.

  Rhona pulled off my gloves, and I tossed my liners in the laundry basket, groaning as I shook out my arms.

  Ouch.


  That earned me a grin from Rhona. “You’re gonna be sore after that.”

  No kidding. Angry punching was only a good idea if a person had actual arm muscles.

  We walked to a large red oak, and I leaned against the trunk, accepting water from her.

  “What were your thoughts on last night?” she asked, sitting straight-backed and alert.

  Uh. That this was far more of a war than I realised.

  “We won,” I answered. “The violence of the game was a shock. That could take me a while to stomach.”

  “We can’t pull Operation Charise again,” Rhona said. “That was a one-off. If the Luthers win and pick Sandstone again, we’ll need something else to keep them at bay. Something good.”

  That I agreed with—simply for knowing Sascha Greyson.

  Kind of.

  I scowled.

  Rhona slid me a twinkling look. “Let’s try a switch on Dad.”

  “He’ll see through it.” We might have inherited our appearance from Grandmother Charise, but our personalities were as different as night and day.

  “Usually, yes. But when you were hungover pissed off the other day, you had everyone convinced. And for whatever reason, you’re just as pissed off today. This could work.”

  I tilted my head as she stood, dusting off her exercise tights.

  “You’re not always angry,” I told her, accepting a hand up.

  She looped an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t lie to me.”

  Not a lie.

  Saying the words aloud would drive her away though. We were hardened shells. Hers was painted in defensiveness, and mine in emotional distance.

  What a pair.

  She stopped us in the manor entrance, glancing around.

  Our clothing was similar enough. Black exercise tights. I had a white T-shirt on. Hers was light grey. Rhona yanked out her hair tie, studying my sweaty hair do as she quickly braided the thick length of her hair over her shoulder.

  I shook out my braid and threw my tresses into a replica of her messy bun.

  She sprayed the contents of her water bottle over her head. “You’re really sweaty.”

  I snorted, stealing her towel to dab at my face and arms. I couldn’t recall my forearms sweating before, but there it was.

  Rhona studied me. “Scowl a bit more.”

  I bared my teeth, growling.

  She rolled her eyes, and I took it back a few notches, curling my lip. Folding my arms, I cocked a hip.

  She made a choked sound. “That’s pretty impressive.”

  I bit my lip, jutting my chest out. “Hey, Foley. Want a lift home? My cousin has a car.”

  Rhona widened her eyes, brushing her braid behind her shoulder. “Werewolves exist? B-But that’s impossible.”

  “Please tell me that’s not what I looked like.” Mortifying.

  “He had claws!” she shrieked.

  I burst into laughter, and she joined me as we strode into the manor, the length of our strides a perfect match.

  “Shh, there’s Dad,” she hushed. “Let’s test it out.”

  Curling my lip, I nearly lost my composure at her doe-eyed look.

  I did not do that.

  Herc’s smile was broad as he looked between us. His eyes misted slightly. Seeing us together must be strange for him without my mother here and all.

  “Good training?” he asked.

  I shrugged a shoulder while Rhona grimaced, saying, “I may never feel my arms again.”

  “She was angry. Punched too hard,” I glanced away, feigning disinterest.

  “Angry? Why?” Herc asked her.

  “Just tired,” Rhona said, moving back a step and fanning her lashes downward.

  My jaw dropped.

  Herc’s face softened. “Of course. If it’s anything you want to talk about, you know where my office is.” He turned to me. “Rhona—”

  “I have plans to go out with my friends,” I whined.

  Two can play at this game.

  His brows drew together. “Consider them cancelled. Something has come up.”

  I sighed dramatically and caught Rhona’s glare.

  “Andie,” he said, turning again. “I pulled out boxes of your mother’s things—journals and pictures. You’re welcome to look through it all and keep what you wish. It’s all in my office.”

  That shut me up.

  “Thank you.” Rhona beamed. “If you guys have stuff to do, I’ll take a look now.”

  She was out of there in seconds.

  Dammit.

  I fell into step beside Herc.

  Herc lowered his voice, speaking fast. “The Luthers are contesting Operation Charise. They’ve sent through a list of pack members with serious and sustained injuries.”

  Oh, shit. “How many points will we lose?”

  “If all of the injuries are ruled valid, they’ll win the grid.”

  Fuck.

  This was a Rhona job, not an Andie job.

  I opened my mouth as Herc pushed into a long conference room. Quiet hellos greeted us.

  I counted ten people.

  Clenching my jaw, I nodded curtly at those in the room and took the seat beside Herc in the middle of the long table.

  Oh my god. I had to say something. Rhona’s absence could make a serious difference to the outcome of this.

  I opened my mouth again.

  “We don’t leave this discussion without Sandstone,” Herc said solemnly. “The pack leader can’t expect the win, but he’ll take it if we don’t counter his claims.”

  Sascha would be on this call? Like magic, channelling Rhona suddenly wasn’t hard.

  The screen turned blue, a phone symbol in the middle as we listened in silence to the ring. Four stewards sat to my left, another four on the other side of Herc.

  One ring.

  Two rings.

  …Five rings.

  Herc shot me a flat look. “Every time.”

  “Mr Thana,” Sascha Greyson’s voice slid into the room. The screen flickered to show his face.

  The Luthers weren’t seated. They stood in a row with their leader in the centre. I recognised Leroy and Hairy. Mandy was there too.

  Good to know.

  Glaring at the leader wasn’t any trouble even as his gaze focused on me for a long beat.

  “Mr Greyson,” Herc said in bored tones. “We understand you called this meeting to discuss several so-called injuries on pack members.”

  “The injuries are severe and sustained,” Sascha replied. “Per the rules of Victratum, points must be deducted to more accurately reflect the result.”

  Victratum had to be the formal name of this game.

  Herc chuckled. “Are you so desperate for the win?”

  “Some may say collapsing a mountain side on another team was desperate.”

  Guess the niceties were over. I couldn’t detect any anger in either man’s voice. What was the aim here? To poke and prod at the other side?

  “The manoeuvre was well within the rules of the game.” Herc combated. “We named it Operation Charise after my mother. You may remember her?”

  The werewolf dipped his head once. “I recall she met with a grievous incident in Clay.”

  My grandmother died twenty-two years ago, so that didn’t really give me an indication of his age. To play the game, and recall what happened to my grandmother, he would have already been in his teens at least, but that was going by human standards. Maybe Luthers matured in a few years.

  His honey gaze flicked my way again. Asshole.

  “Grievous incident,” Herc repeated. “Indeed. Today, we’re talking of your own grievous incidents. Proceed.”

  Smart. I remembered the business lectures on persuasion—something we tackled for a month during my negotiation paper. Creating a personal note was one of the first steps—as was using guilt to prove a point.

  My eyebrow muscles complain at the prolonged scowl. This anger business was harder than it seemed.

  “Of course. Let’
s begin. I’m sure you’re as busy as I am.” The werewolf smiled before turning to Leroy on his immediate left. “Please carry Hairy in.”

  His gaze returned to me a third time. He couldn’t possibly know it was me, but my thudding heart didn’t acknowledge that.

  I glowered. “Is there something on my face, Luther?”

  Sascha. The name suited his eyes so much better than Alarick ever did.

  “Rhona,” he replied a second too late. “Always a pleasure.”

  I cocked a brow. “Wish I could say the same.”

  A pale Hairy was carted into view, and Pascal stood from our table approaching the screen.

  Everyone’s focus shifted to the panting werewolf, but mine stayed on the casino owner.

  No.

  The leader of the Luthers.

  The werewolf I grinded against until we both came. Who’d lied to me about everything, including his name.

  In silence, I followed Herc into his office.

  “Oh, Andie didn’t grab her stuff.” He moved to the boxes filling half the desk and picked up a journal.

  I fixed on it.

  Rhona could have at least collected these before running off for the day.

  “You’re old enough now to begin leadership training with me.”

  “What?” I blurted.

  He lifted a brow. “Excuse me. One day you’ll lead this tribe, Rhona. It’s time we prepared you for that role.”

  Ugh. This was the worst day to switch with Rhona.

  Herc sat in the leather seat. “Can’t say I planned to spend three hours talking to Luthers today. What did you think?”

  The werewolves presented ten cases. Seven were ruled valid by the marshals. Our twenty-point victory had whittled to six. We’d kept Sandstone, but there were several times I thought we’d lose it.

  I took the seat opposite him. “Sascha Greyson was showing you the risk of pulling that operation again.”

  “Correct. Well done.”

  Oops. I should step up my Rhona-ness. “I hate talking to those assholes.”

  “You must learn to deal with them. Grudges worked out in conferences are grudges that don’t enter the grid. It’s for the safety of our stewards.”

  I wouldn’t exactly call what just transpired working out grudges. “Do you think they’ll act out in Clay?”