Werewolf's Humanity

Ashes, Ashes, Part 2

Lincoln Moses sprawled out on the leather sofa in his father's study. Not many men had a study these days, but not many men were the alpha of the wealthiest werewolf pack in the East Coast. Old-school Southern opulence had never been phased out of their ancestral manor. Moonlight glowed in through the bay window over a massive oak table and the rich, matching cabinet containing expensive boozes, and backlighting the man who owned it all. Patton Moses was a stout man with thinning hair on his head, but a well-groomed beard and a thick coating of hair covered his arms. He carried himself like he was taller than anyone around him; even when seated behind his desk, his underlings hunched slightly in submissive respect.

"Did anyone make it out of the safe house?" Patton asked, before taking a sip from his scotch. His casual drawl belied the serious implications of his words. That was something Lincoln marveled about his father. The man could make anything sound like a chat about the weather, even when ordering the deaths of others.

The tall, lanky man that Lincoln knew only as Jim shook his head. "No sir. We cut the gas line in just the right spot. Whole place was an inferno before anyone coulda made it to the door."

"And we stayed and watched, just to make sure," said his shorter partner, ironically known as Slim.

"Good work, boys. Go get yourselves something to drink."

As soon as the henchmen closed the door behind them, Lincoln sat up. "So what's our next move?"

His father steepled his fingers. "Now... we sit back and wait. That's the last of Face Cards' safe houses that we know of. We give them twenty-four hours to call us to negotiate their surrender, and if they don't..."

"If they don't... we hit their casino?"

"Jackpot."

Lincoln grinned. He could taste victory. He could taste Julienne. She would be his bride soon enough. And she wouldn't be happy about it, at first, but sooner or later she would come around...

"Sir, please don't-" came a worried voice from down the hall. Lincoln and his father both shifted their heads towards the door.

"Which of you were the ones who hit the safe house tonight?" came astranger's voice. Gruff. Demanding. Lincoln stood up and began to shift, forcing white fur to push its way out through his skin. Adrenaline was already coursing through his system, making the transformation a little easier than usual. He cursed as he had to pop off the buttons to pull off his favorite shirt. He would have to get someone to mend it later.

"Those two! Slim and Jim!" What kind of coward would give up their packmates right away like that?

"There were children in there, you bastards!" the stranger roared.

"Wait-we didn't know!"

"Please, we surren-daaaargh!"

Lincoln saw his father pull a gun out of his desk, the one loaded with silver bullets, and then turned his attention to the door as the knob started to turn. In walked... an old man, weather-worn, bald, pushing sixty. From behind him wafted in the smell of fresh blood. Lincoln immediately noticed the empty knife sheath on his belt, next to a pair of nasty-looking silver tactical tomahawks hanging off each hip.

Why hadn't his father gunned down this invader already? Lincoln glanced back, to see his old man... white as a sheet, and his hand shaking as he slowly lowered the gun. A knot formed in Lincoln's stomach. He had never, in all his life, seen Patton Moses fold.

The stranger smelled of smoke and battle, blood and carnage. But there was something about his mannerisms that was even more disconcerting. Where Patton Moses projected power, this man was power. He walked across the room, all business, like he was the one who owned it. And helped himself to a glass of his father's most expensive brandy, back turned in confidence. Lincoln remembered the one time he had snuck a taste of his father's booze when he had been fifteen. The old man had given him a serious mauling for his trespass.