Zachariah stumbled through the door, shoulder catching the frame as he shoved himself inside his apartment. Shaking hands fumbled with the locks—deadbolt, chain, the reinforced bar he’d installed. One by one, they clicked into place with metallic finality.

Sweat soaked through his shirt. His throat burned with a thirst that water couldn’t touch, saliva flooding his mouth until he had to swallow convulsively to keep from drooling. Air came in sharp, ragged bursts.

He’d known. Had taken Vex’s warnings seriously, prepared himself as much as anyone could prepare for their first night as a monster. But knowing and experiencing—there was a universe of difference between the two.

The moment he’d stepped onto the street, Halcyon had hit him like a freight train. Neon lights burned too bright, their colors searing afterimages behind his eyelids. Car engines roared, brakes screeched, music bled from nightclub doors—all of it crushing down until he gasped.

But that was nothing compared to the people.

The sidewalks teemed with them, voices creating a cacophony that made his skull throb. Beneath the chatter, beneath the laughter and arguments, was something else. Something that made his mouth flood with saliva and his vision narrow to pinpoints.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Hearts. Everywhere, hearts beating in rhythm, a symphony of life that called to something primal and hungry in his chest. The sound grew louder with each passing second, drowning out everything else—traffic, voices, his own ragged breathing. Just that relentless percussion of blood announcing itself to every predatory instinct he didn’t know he possessed.

A woman had brushed past him outside a nightclub, her perfume mixing with the salt-sweet scent of her skin, and Zachariah had caught the underlying copper tang of her blood. Rich. Warm. Available. The urge seized him—to lean closer, to taste. He’d imagined pressing his teeth to the soft curve of her neck, feeling her pulse flutter against his tongue before—

Stop. Stop. STOP.

Warden training had kicked in then. He’d jerked to a halt, fists clenched until his nails bit into his palms, using pain as an anchor. Every muscle screamed in protest as he forced himself to turn away, to put distance between himself and the walking banquet that surrounded him.

Each block became a battle. Each person a test he barely passed. By the time he’d reached his building, drool was trickling down his chin and he was trembling all over.

Only his Warden training—years of discipline hammered into his bones—that had saved his life countless times in the field now served as the only barrier between his sanity and complete surrender to the Curse.

But it wouldn't be enough. Not forever.

One day—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week—that discipline would snap. And then there would be blood on his hands that no amount of penance could wash clean.

Now, back in his apartment, Zachariah collapsed against the hardwood floor. Tension coiled through him. His body was ready to hunt for prey that wasn’t there.

His chest heaved, drawing in great gulps of air that did nothing to calm the fire racing through his veins.

The Sanguine Curse writhed inside him, clawing at his ribcage, demanding satisfaction. It whispered how easy it would be to go back outside, how sweet that first taste would be, how the burning would finally stop if he just gave in.

Zachariah pressed his forehead to the cool floor and waited.

How long he lay there, he couldn’t say. Time felt elastic. Unreliable.

The hunger prowled at the edges of his consciousness like a caged animal, testing the bars, looking for weakness. But gradually—gradually—it retreated.

When Zachariah finally felt human enough to think clearly, he pushed himself upright and surveyed the apartment.

Everything exactly as he’d left it. His coffee mug still sat on the kitchen counter, a ring of dried residue marking where he’d abandoned it days ago. Mail lay scattered across the dining table, bills and junk advertisements mixed together in the same careless pile. Even the throw pillow on his couch remained at the exact angle where Sable had tossed it before Zachariah left for what should have been a routine investigation.

Which meant the Wardens hadn't come yet.

Yet.

They would, though. Soon. And that meant Zachariah had to make a decision now.

The right thing—the Warden thing—would be to pick up his phone and call headquarters himself. Save them the trouble. Three words: “I’ve been compromised.” They'd be here within the hour with silver bullets and bloodrune blades, and this nightmare would end before he hurt someone.

Clean. Professional. The kind of death a Warden deserved.

But beneath the logic, beneath years of duty and honor, a deeper, more fundamental part rebelled against it. Not because he feared death—he’d made peace with his mortality long ago, had walked into enough dangerous situations to know that someday his luck would run out.

No, what kept him from reaching for the phone was simpler and more complicated than fear.

Elijah.

His friends.

Zachariah couldn’t die. Not yet. Not until he found the bastards responsible and returned the favor.

The decision felt less like choice and more like inevitability.

He hauled himself to his feet, his body protesting every movement. Double-checked the deadbolt. Drew the curtains tight against the windows. Then he powered up his desktop. The screen flickered to life, casting blue light across his face as he opened his encrypted messaging app. His fingers moved across the keyboard:

We need to talk in person. It’s urgent. - Z

Message sent to Sable and Wendell, he opened his email client. The cursor blinked in the subject line as he considered his words.

Subject: Business Proposition

Wulde,

Due to unforeseen circumstances, I need to step back from day-to-day operations at Reed Financial indefinitely. I’m writing to ask if you would be willing to take over the company entirely—client contracts, office lease, equipment, everything. I know this is sudden, but I trust your judgment and expertise more than anyone else's.

We can discuss terms and transition details at your convenience. Time is unfortunately a factor.

I hope you’ll consider it.

Zachariah

He stared at the screen for a long moment before hitting send.

The club was stifling. It all felt like it was closing in as the chatter died out and the eyes turned to stare at her. Leaving nothing but the sharp clicks of her heels on the wooden stage and heavy anticipation. Alora pretended none of it affected her though as she prowled up to the microphone stand.

There she stood, her dress was a little glamorous number that shone like opalite under the spotlight. With her long pale lavender hair falling down her back, she looked like eatheral. Yet she paid no attention to the enamored audience, eyes looking through them.

Then, as all eyes were glued to her, her lips brushed against the microphone and she breathed out the first words of the song.

"You had plenty money in 1922"

The music from the band next to the stage started to lightly play, bringing more warmth and energy to the next bits of her song.

"You let other women make a fool of you"

Eventually, she looked up and eyes that swam with syrupy purple, that seemed to have a hold on anyone they landed on. So softly and sweetly the words were sung as though they were as natural for her as breathing.

"Why don't you do right?
Like some other men do
Get out of here and get me some money, too"

Now as the audience watched on, Alora reached out with her slender fingers to those who could not look away.

"You're sittin' down wonderin' what it's all about
You ain't got no money that will put you out"

Most who saw her would assume her gesture of bringing her hand back closer to her was part of the entertainment. What they did not know though was in her grasp, the fae glamoured up to the tenths was pulling their joy and desire towards her. Stealing the feelings, or as she would say, taking what they had offered her to her own self.

There on the stage, the warmth of the emotions flooded her and a genuine grin and lopsided grin began to grow on her face.

"Why don't you do right?
Like some other men do
Get out of here and get me some money, too"

Finally, for the first time in 24 hours, she could feel affection towards herself. So Alora pulled and pulled, drinking in all the feelings she could get.

Her singing continued so easily, it was so easy, she had done it a thousand times before. However as the song started to finish, her words got louder and her hands on her microphone became more lax.

"Like some other men do
Like some other men do"

Now with a much more relaxed body, she made her way behind the velvet curtain. She seemed to stumble for a second but luckily she was out of the view by that point. Instead, all she heard as she annoyedly through off those high heels her sister had always loved so much were the cheers of the audience and the announcement of, "And that was our lovely Chimere!"

Hair now messy and in front of her face, the fae pushed it back to look at herself in the mirror and there once again was Chimere. Perfect beautiful Chimere...

Alora needed a drink.

Kessler went home, which was a little hole in the wall above and behind a noodle house, deep in the weeds. The place wasn't much more than four walls, a hot plate, a bed and a small bathroom, but it had a rooftop patio twice the size of the indoor living space, and what used to be a disused storage room for the noodle shop had been turned into a shop for Kessler's bikes. He changed, and popped open a beer. Finished the beer. Popped another. Sat with it, sat with his thoughts for more than a minute, but his head wouldn't shut the hell up, reminding him what a worthless cur he was, and he threw the beer against the wall the bottle exploding like a WP gren. He wandered down to his shop, ran his hands over the 1938 Chief oil / gas tank, pulled the sheet off the frame, which was 3/4 through being hard-tailed. He fired up the welder, and ran a bead. Another. Packed head tube bearings. Repacked them. He wasn't really accomplishing anything. He was just spinning his wheels, and the more he spun, the more he wanted to hurt something. He was too worked up to relax. Too angry to work. Too pent-up to leave well-enough alone. There was really only one thing for it.

He kicked his daily ride to life - a lightly customized 2020 Harley Fat Bob with the 'Milwaukee Eight' 114 engine, and twisted a better-than-healthy dose of throttle to shoot out into the night, picking a route that showed him the bare minimum of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other annoyances that would serve only to endanger them, not him. It took him the better part of fifteen minutes -- an eternity in urban backstreet thundering -- to reach Sundown Row, and he pulled the big bike to a halt against the curb a block from his destination of choice. The 'Rusty Halo' stood out on the strip as one of the only punk clubs in the district ('less you wanted to head underground.) 'The Underground' would have served him well too, but he wanted to make a quick exit when the time came.

There was a drunk downsider passed out on the bench outside the club, and a band playing inside that hadn't tuned their instruments, or changed their strings in months, by the sounds of it. They were doing a passable cover of Fugazi. Any other night, Kessler would just grab a beer and listen. But tonight, he wanted someone to hurt him. It wouldn't take long. It never did. All he had to do in this place was act the Alpha. Chest out. Back down from nothing. Apologize to nobody. If a drink happened to fall, so be it. Fuck 'em. If somebody got bumped into - hard? Their problem, not his. There was enough manufactured testosterone and ego in here. He knew it was right around the corner...

Luck was on Kessler's side as tonight as group of six young pups sat a booth inside the Rusty Halo. Smug. Obnoxious. Green. The signs of those yet to be knocked on their ass and taught a lesson about true power. That would change tonight. They wore their own kuttes with the embroidery that minted them as new members of the Steel Claws. A upstart Lycan pack with a hothead of a leader that had just enough muscle to keep his dogs on their leash. Logan had hated them nearly as much as the Coldfangs.

The biggest of the six stood up, his seat facing the entrance. "The fuck is one of you doing here?" He growled as his stance made the others rise as well to look at Kessler. Their leader barely had a stubble on his chin as his lisp curled into a snide smile "Shouldn't ya be crying in a ditch with your old pal?" He had stated with bravado, the other five laughing along unaware of what they were being pulled into.

It could have been taken so many ways. They might have been talking about Joaquin, who often talked guitar with Kessler on a patio in the 'Row' and who was, compared to these suckling pups, 'old.' They could have been talking about the drunk outside, who had been the butt of everyone's jokes for months, and who would likely die soon enough. He was probably only in his late 30's, but looked every bit of 65. Hell, they might have been talking about raising a glass to Joe Strummer -- in Kessler's eyes the last punk worthy of a capital-P. But no, tonight of all nights, these motherfuckers meant Logan. Even if they didn't. Even if they hadn't heard the news yet, and the comment wasn't a not-so-subtle jab at the Fangs' all-too-recent loss.

Kessler stopped, and turned to face the youth, full of piss and vinegar. "you're gonna look awful funny, apologizing for your callous insolence with no teeth and a mouth full of blood, pup..."

The leader with the stubble was the first to approach, followed shortly by the rest of his posse. His hazel eyes shifted to those of a wolf "The fuck you say to me, Iron Fanger? Must be going blind in your age or ya just too stupid to count." He stepped up to Kessler as the other five circled the pair. His stance tried to exude confidence, but it spoke of one expecting to get his way. The space around them grew quieter as others tuned in for the show.

Kessler took a deep breath, the calm of knowing he was going to get the fight he wanted washed over him. He flexed his fists, knuckles cracking. He could feel the change, just under his skin, like an itch he couldn't scratch. He knew these pups would smell it, but they were already starved for action, blinded by territoriality, as if pissing drunkenly in the corner of a punk bar made it 'yours.'

"I know the music's a little loud, but did I stutter, meat-bag? What -- you got your buddy's dick in your ear? I said, you're going to be spitting chicklets in a few minutes." Kessler had a lot on his side. Size, strength, experience... but he knew damn well these puppies were going to give him a run for his money, and that's exactly what he wanted. He needed to hurt. He needed to be driven to the edge. Past it.

Kessler revelled in the fact that sometimes that change took him in a different way. A lot of mythstorians believed that Lycans ("Werewolves" in the boogeyman tales humankind told their children) changed the same way every time. But it wasn't true. Sometimes the change hit the spine first. Sometimes the hands. Sometimes it was centred in the head, a piercing, blinding pain that threatened to render you helpless. (Those were the worst.) Usually, Kessler got the claws. His nails becoming vicious rending weapons of bone and steel. But this time, the claws started at his metacarpophalangeal joint, his hands burning, shaking from the bone protrusions. One orbital bone shifted, a cheekbone popping, reforming, but he held it off, because he wanted to.

"Make your move, motherfuckers... I shit on all you, and your worthless kuttes." He spat, the thick, frothy spittle sailing toward the leader of the young toughs.

A wide grin flashed growing canines at Kessler's retort as the youngblood glanced to their sides where his fellow pack members had finished taking positions. The scent of change from there mixed with Kessler's and those in attendance didn't need a strong nose to know it was about to begin. "Ya hear that boys? This dumbfuck here thinks himself a comedian. You're going to be shitting blood if ya don't crawl on out of here." The subtle pops and grinding of teeth were enough signs that the Steel Claw goons were beginning their own partial shifts, still waiting on their leader's initiative.

The glob of warm spit splattered on the right cheek of the leader, flowing down along the angle of his jaw. His eyes burned with a rage that his cold expression couldn't hide as he wiped it off with his hand. He stared at the mess on his palm before curling it into a fist and firing it towards Kessler's face with newly knitted muscle powering the thrust. Two of the Steel Claws in the outer circle moved in after the punch was thrown throwing their own jabs.

He could have moved. Could have side-stepped the way Dom had showed him decades ago. Could have stepped away and let the blow from the side connect with the tough's comrade instead. But he didn't. He let it all connect. A stout shot to the ribs, and the leader's strike to his face, caught him on the cheek. He could feel bone crack, and he acknowledged this pain. Sensed injury. Ignored it. Smiled a bloody smile as his own fangs made themselves known. His voice was thick with the change, part growl, all monster, for so he was.

"Good, boys. Good. You'll make someone proud one day." Then he struck, driving his knuckle-claws deep into the chest of one of the leader's friends, tearing, rending, not caring about the screams around him. These wouldn't be killing blows to a Lycan, but he needed to send a message. Stepping to one side, he transferred his weight and put every ounce of coiled, tensed muscle tissue into the blow to the pup's knee, which snapped and twisted awkwardly, in a way that no joint was meant to be. "Not today though."

He spun and raked his claws across the leader's face, drawing blood, and feeling awash in power and rage, feeling the blood spatter his own face. "Is that the best you've got?!"

The crowd devolved into a series of whoops and cheers as their entertainment for the night kicked off. There was even a small pool started on who would win the fight. The Steel Claw that had his knee mangled howled in pain and fell to the side to let another take his place. Their punches carried the strength and weight of a Lycan but none of the technique that came with experience. They had fought with other youngblood or harassed weak humans. None of them knew what it meant to face a veteran like Kessler.

The leader grimaced and growled as the claws tore up his skin, claiming one of his eyes in the process, yet he didn't howl like the other in his group. Instead, he brandishing his own sharpened claws and came swinging back at Kessler. "You're gonna pay for that, shithead!" He turned his voice on his brothers. "Will two of you dipshits grab his arms already!"

Two of his fellow goons jumped at Kessler from his sides, hands reach for his arms as the Leader tried to keep his focus.

His phone went off, in his pocket. He couldn't see what it was, but he knew it was important. There were only so many people who even had his number. But for the moment, he was getting his wish. He was grabbed from one side, to which he lashed out, again feeling bone crunch, and blood spatter him. But numbers were on their side. He was grabbed, and though they had real, honest trouble keeping ahold of him, they managed to get their kicks in. And Kessler needed it. He needed to feel his flesh tear, his ribs crack, his eye pulped. He drank it in like it was his sixth shot of Cuervo of the night, feeling every hit, reminding him he was alive.

The crowd whooped and hollered, egging on the young punks, until Kessler's head hung limp, his body held aloft in their grasp.

And then his head raised up, mouth dripping blood, broken tooth spat onto the floor, eye red with a burst blood vessel. "My turn."

The leader-pup's brows scrunched at Kessler's statement and that was all he had time for. He took a step back as his eyes widened from their confusion into shock. Their blood-curdled scream silenced any and all merriment happening in the dive bar...for a whole three seconds as the crowd shifted their cheering from the young punks to Kessler now tearing them a new one.

Despite the madness before him, the leader's expression steeled as Kessler approached. He said nothing as he surged towards Kessler, simply letting out a throaty yell as he swung his fist for his head. The difference was he was now alone facing the beast of a man in front of him. Those with any shreds of consciousness dragging or limping themselves over the dirty floor and towards the exit.

Kessler's arms, 'held at bay' grasped the flesh that held his arms, dug in, dug farther until they weren't holding him, he was holding them. Tore musculature from bone, tossed one man across the room like an empty beer can. Raised the other who had been holding him, raised him up by the latissimus dorsi (lats -- to you heathens,) blood dripping down his flank, and quite literally tore his arm out at the socket, the flesh torn and ragged, blood spraying from severed arteries, beating him with it until his face was a fine red soup.

Turned to face the leader, an angel of death ready to end it all, and make him pay dearly, fangs and jaw covered in the ichor of his enemies, blood dotting his visage and his one, bloodshot eye.

He needed to make this quick.

The group of punks held nothing back at their Lycan muscles set in under their stretched and torn skin. Wicked grins painted their faces as each joined in wearing their own bruises and scrapes. "Not so tough now, huh?" "Gonna bury you old man!" "Hope you got your diaper on gramps cuz' we're kicking the shit out of you!" Each one hollered their own insults as their leader punched Kessler from the front, savoring each strike that landed cleanly. Their leader hunched to looked Kessler in his eyes. "You really must be a pathetic kind of dumbass. How about you tuck your tail between your legs and run home now, huh?" His voice dripped with the preemptive confidence one had before they lost it all at the end.

This time, Kessler did sidestep the attack, ducking under the roundhouse swing and, using the cub's own momentum, levelled two shots to the leader's ribs (and hopefully, lungs) before letting his reckless charge send him careering into the bar.

Straightening up, feeling the painful process of bones in his face knitting, blood running down his arms, and feeling more alive than anytime in the past few hours, Kessler spat blood on the form struggling to get up after flying face-first into a wooden structure.

"Thanks Boys." He checked his phone. Church. He knew it was coming... just hadn't been sure when. He had his answer. "This has been fun. I'm sure we'll do it again sometime. You feel you owe me some, you know where to find me." They'd given as good as they got. (well, a couple of them had.) He was covered in lacerations, and his left orbital bone was definitely broken. Definitely a couple of broken ribs, one of which cracked, popped and shifted back into place as he collected himself, causing the big man to wince.

The band kicked off the next tune, a not-half-bad cover of Rancid's 'Fall Back Down,' as Kessler stepped carefully over the pups dragging themselves to the door. He was in no rush. He was not escaping. Not running away. A few minutes later, the big bike kicked to life and he headed for the Cracked Fang, arriving less than twenty minutes later. He was still a mess, though most of the cuts had stopped bleeding, and a few had closed -- he was still bruised and bloody (and fucking sore.) He walked into the 'Fang, behind the bar, and filled a cloth with ice, washing his face and busted knuckles in the sink, letting fresh blood run. His missing tooth was itching, regrowing, and he worried at it a moment before stepping into the inner sanctum, perching on a table at the back of the room. He spoke to no-one, he made eye contact with no-one. Just let it bleed. Hear the man out. Prep for the Hunt. Fuck 'em all.

Wulde was in the breakroom back at the South Halcyon Friends Meeting House, drinking lukewarm coffee, when he finally decided to look at the message. A furtive buzz on his phone had announced its receipt a couple hours back, while he had been in the middle of inspecting the charred remnants in the warehouse; however, for obvious reasons, he had ignored it at the time.

He had the breakroom to himself now. Wallace was still at the front desk. Barton was in a classroom, napping on a makeshift palette of commandeered rest mats. Lieutenant Grant was in the church’s library cum media center, poring over Wulde’s bodycam footage and photographs. The other Wardens were headed back to the Bastion in the crew van, taking with them the meager bits of physical evidence he had bagged inside the warehouse: a couple air samples and surface swabs, the charred remnants of a chair leg, a discarded end piece of thornsteel rope, and a single tooth.

Wulde had found that tooth by the foot of a shelf rack a good thirty feet away from the burn site; most likely it had been tossed or kicked there after being knocked from its owner’s head. It was generally clear what had happened at the warehouse: somebody had been bundled there the previous night, tortured, and killed. That mostly answered three out of the five W’s. Hopefully, the tooth would help the Bastion figure out the who. Most of the senior Iron Fangs had shown their faces to Wallace’s spy cameras outside the warehouse this evening; the Wardens needed to figure out who was missing.

And now, here in his inbox, was another mystery: an unexpected message from Zachariah Reed, cryptically entitled “Business Proposition”. The idea that Reed might have a proposal for Wulde was not unusual in principle: their professional interests overlapped over the field of forensic accounting. Yet the particulars and circumstances of this message were baffling.

“Due to unforeseen circumstances, I need to step back from day-to-day operations at Reed Financial indefinitely.” That was vague and ominous. Obviously, something both big and sudden must have happened in Zachariah’s life for him to make such a drastic decision so abruptly. Was he ill? In legal trouble? In love?

And he was asking Wulde to take over everything. Did Reed have no other second in command he could hand the reins to? Apparently not. So not only was he making a big life change quickly, he was now ask Wulde to do the same. Could he even do this?

He puffed out his cheeks and set his phone down atop the notes he had taken of his own debriefing with Lieutenant Grant. He leaned back as much as he dared in the folding chair and looked up at the wall, his eyes landing on a placard that bore that famous quote from Niebuhr’s "Serenity Prayer". He chuckled mirthlessly as he read it, contemplating how it commented on his current situation. Serenity, courage, and wisdom indeed. A bit more helpful, perhaps than those dubiously motivational slogans he had seen moldering on the warehouse walls earlier, but not by much.

Wulde Riddenhouse had a lot of questions for Zachariah Reed, questions he would only get answered if he agreed to meet with the guy. Thus, while his final decision about the “business proposal” might prove difficult and weighty, his immediate next step was obvious.

He picked up his phone again, but then paused, considering. “Time is unfortunately a factor”, Zachariah had written. Vague and ominous again. But Wulde couldn’t just up and leave right now. First, Grant might still have questions for him; second, his ride was taking a nap. After a moment he typed:

Re: Business Proposition.

Zachariah,

This is indeed a large and unusual request, suddenly made. I have many questions to ask, and things to consider. I expect to be tied up for the next couple hours, but should be able to make time after that. I want to talk to you about this, so name a time and a place.

Wulde

He set his phone down once more, then got up to recharge his coffee cup. He had the wisdom to know that all he could do now was wait, and the serenity to accept that.

Color code 766359
Location: The Cracked Fang Time: Dusk
Speaking with: The Pack
Interacting with: @Oso Dom

^{__________________________________________________________}

Lucian drew in a breath and exhaled as the pack filtered in. Some held nervous faces, some clueless. There hasn't been a gathering like, where every member was present, in...forever. Usually, it is just the shotcallers and ones that needed to be around called into Church. This was obviously different.

This was war.

Dom brought out the old wooden box out. Lucian knew what was in there. Knew what it meant. The gavel. A barbaric thing. Symbolic, savage, yet elegantly made. Pure silver. A symbol of...whatever the current pack leader needs it to be. Solidarity perhaps. Now more than ever, Lucian assumed. Even Lucian, a seasoned member of the pack, shrugged with a sense of uneasiness when the metallic clang rang out as Dom pounded the gavel. Lucian paid no mind to the searing sound that came from Dom holding silver. He knows what this all means. Dom sure as hell does too.

Looking down at the flat surface of the table that they all sat at now, and as Dom began to speak, Lucian reached his right hand beneath the tabletop and brought out an old bowie knife. The small hand guard, handle, and pommel all looks worn, but the blade held a devilish sheen. Like some meticulously takes care of it. Holding the knife, and with the pommel resting against his forehead, Lucian sat and listened to Dom. Each word from his leader carried unseen weight. Each word cut.

Damn right it was a message. A message that will be returned in kind, Lucian thought.

As Dom finished speaking, Lucian shot him a look. Taking the knife away from his forehead, he gently tapped the point of the blade against the table. "Yeah, Dom. I need a word with you, alone." In the same breath, he looked up to the gathered mass and continued "But before that... The rest of you. Some of you know me, some of you don't. That doesn't matter right now. What I need you to know is this... These motherfuckers Lucian said through gritted teeth and emotionless face that somehow also portrayed seething fury "These motherfuckers. I don't know and I don't care where they're from. Wherever that is, they forgot to teach'em to never mess with a man's family... They crossed a line. The fuckers responsible. You find them. Bring them here. And you watch. And you learn what family means. Youngbloods, don't travel alone. There is real strength in numbers. The rest of you ladies and gentleman, you know what this is, what this means. You don't need to hear me blabber..."

Lucian leaned back, sheathing his blade and waited to see if anyone else spoke up.

If so, Lucian would give them his undivided attention.
If not, the hunt is on.

Alicia's stomach turned as Dominic's fingers coiled around the silver handle of the gavel. The sickening scent of burning, rent flesh crossed her nose. She wasn't particularly fond of the show he put on for this - but she'd be the last person to question it. At least not out loud. The gavel slammed on the table and shocked her from her own train of thought, the sound like a rifle's report. She unconsciously leaned in as he declared Church in session, lowering her head in almost instinctual deference. She hadn't taken a seat, choosing to remain standing in her spot away from the others - not too far from the loud gaggle of youngbloods. Her gaze flickered to them - still sitting politely like children scolded by a father whose patience had run out. Or whose patience hadn't existed to begin with, she mused momentarily.

"Don't look at me. Don't look at me. Don't look at me." She mentally pleaded as he began to sweep across the room, but their eyes met. She shrank instinctively, but her heart fluttered in trepidation. "Don't say it. Don't fucking say what I think you're gonna say."

"Logan… Our brother-"

Alicia's blood turned to ice immediately as her suspicions were immediately and wholly vindicated before Blackmoor had finished his sentence. Arms crossed, she clutched her arms, the jacket's leather creaking under the tension of her grip as she ground her teeth. His words turned into white noise for a short time as she ran over the possible outcomes of this night in her head. This had to mean war - or at least some kind of response. It'd be in kind - an investigation leading to an assassination. Eye for an eye. But the Fangs wouldn't be content trading Logan's life one-to-one. There was gonna be a lot more blood involved than that.

"I need you to dig. Do you hear me? I need all of you to help me figure out who did this to our brother." He commanded, and she suppressed a click of her tongue - out of equal parts respect and fear of repercussions if her displeasure was made known. The investigation work - that wouldn't fall on her, right? There were other scouts in the pack, many of them in some ways more loyal and more motivated than her, but...

Her gaze narrowed as it fell on the spot where the gavel had struck the table moments before. She felt it too - the overwhelming howl for retribution bubbling in her throat same as the others. Logan was good people. He'd been one of the only ones who recognized some of her anime figures when he'd stopped by on business in the past. Though she couldn't muster the same righteous indignation as many of her packmates around her, this was a cut she shared with the people who'd taken her in. But it didn't run deep enough, it didn't-

"They forgot to teach'em to never mess with a man's family..." Lucian cried, and she sighed in reluctant agreement. She nodded as he warned the pack not to travel alone, and gave a meaningful nod to William in appreciation for his earlier escort. With everything said, she'd probably ask for a ride back to the apartment at least as she pushed off the wall, the session seemingly coming to a close. She'd happily hide out at home and wait for the pack to reach out if she was needed.

Yet before she could take a step, she froze as she watched Tessa sink to her knees, wailing in agony for her lost brother, and Alicia's gaze froze on her. A wave of shame roiled in her gut for even considering ducking out, and she hated it. Here was someone who'd lost someone so close to her it was like a part of herself was shorn from her very soul - and even as distant as Alicia wanted to be in the moment, she couldn't ignore this one. So it was with a deep, steeling breath, she straightened her back, let out a low, bracing growl, and lifted her gaze to Dominic.

"Gimme an escort, and the address of that warehouse. Can't send out the muscle til we know our enemy - or whatever." She said. Her voice carried across the hall with an authority she either didn't know she had - or had forgotten about as a vestige of her old life. "I don't need you to draw up a contract for this one. It's on the fucking house." She growled. "You know how I operate. I'm not gonna start picking fights with any asshole that smells a little bloody. I'll get you your names, Blackmoor."

She stepped forward, clearing the hall, and shed her jacket. She leaned down and gently draped it over Tessa's shoulders. They weren't exactly friends, per-se, but it still sucked seeing her break down like this. Tessa's bubbliness usually got on Alicia's nerves, but the sight of her in the moment stoked a sisterly instinct.

"Blood's still gotta be fresh-ish, right? There's no way Logan went down without a fight. If anyone's gonna pick up whatever scent's left, you know I'm your girl." She said to Dominic as she stepped back, giving Tessa a little room. "Focus your energy on getting everyone in line, 'specially those fucks." She said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder at the rapidly shrinking loudmouths behind her. "But no matter how riled up we are right now, we approach this tactically."

She closed her eyes, and turned on her heel, and opened them, scanning the room for any sign of consensus. The worry that everyone would be ready to burst into the night and turn Halcyon's streets into rivers of blood was a real concern for her. She glanced, almost nervously, over her shoulder at Dominic, searching to see if he shared it.

So, there he sat. Listening to Dom. Listening to some outpouring of emotion, of plotting, of grief. Meanwhile, he still had dirt from the two graves he'd dug under his fingernails. One of which was Logan's. The other, some dumb motherfucker who made the mistake of getting too close to Kessler at the wrong time. He hadn't done anything wrong, not in any sense of the word that Kessler could put sense to. Yeah, some were sad. All wanted blood. Some wanted to do it smart-like. Others wanted to kick ass and take names.

There were times that the imposing, turned-blood had taken a seat at the table for 'Church.' Not always. And certainly not tonight. No, he sat at the back of the room, letting the natural born Lycans have their say, while he let the blood of their enemies drip from his knuckles. He listened while Dom laid it all on the line for the Pack. Listened while Lucian added his bit. His words cut like a shiv, designed to get the most from the young pups and elicit a rise out of the gathered masses. He'd be the new Beta soon enough, Kessler would have bet his last breath on it. It would be a change from Logan. There was no doubt. Good, or bad though? Kessler's mind wasn't made up yet. Listened while Tessa broke down over the loss so deep. He wished he had that in him. Wished he had it in him to feel empathy for her, too. Listened while Alicia told it like it was. Or more accurately, how she hoped it would be. As she scanned the room, her eyes would meet his, cold as ice and just as unforgiving, one of them still bloodshot and damaged from his tussle at the Rusty Halo.

He said nothing. Not to any of them. Spat blood on the floor. He'd take his orders from Dom. And in the absence of anything from his Alpha, well, he'd just have to see where the scent pulled him. For now, he waited. Church wasn't over, and there was still time for this divine script to turn blasphemous.

Volfango was standing up as he slipped on his shirt purposefully leaving the buttons undone. Truly he was only putting it on so he didn't lose it. The thread count of this particular article was pleasing to his skin, though it was slick with sweat at the moment. Speaking of slick, the booth was thoroughly ruined. Grazie. Volfango had to thank the object's valiant service. His glamour that had displayed the cosmos on the ceiling of the establishment fading from the other patrons.

He was feeling invigorated by this particular conquest. No. Volfango did not enjoy the taste of the word in this instance. A dance was perhaps a more apt description. A difference that came close to reigniting his passions once from its recent memory. His golden eyes drank in the form of the one responsible for his good mood and came slinking back to the booth. He pressed a hand into the back of the booth and leaned in, holding his head close to hers. "Caro mia..." The words rumbled deep in his throat. "...was Volfango to your liking?" He spoke with confidence, already anticipating the answer. "For you were everything Volfango could dream of." He accompanied his statement by lowering his lips against side of her neck.

Volfango did not stay long enough to make a mark, pulling back soon after, but his eyes did not leave hers. "Volfango would love to find out what other trouble there is to make with you." He could barely fathom the mischief they two of them could throw together, but he was determined to find out.

He shifted to look outwards into the club, seeking out those who had the greatest potential for an unforgettable experience. The crowd blended together now that it lacked his precious bellisma ninfa. Everything he saw felt like a let down now that he found someone so wild and free. A far cry from the gilded cage being a child of the Court brought. Estranged as he was from his father, the man still held a golden leash around his neck and all he would have do is pull.

Then he saw it. A flash of gold and flicker of silver. Colors that seemed to mute all others in the space around them. Volfango might not be able to speak lies, but he also refused to lie to himself. The woman had captured his attention nearly the second he had spotted her. Were it not for Lys, he had no doubt she would be the subject of his passions for the night. However, at the moment he was feeling like one does going to the grocery store after eating a full course meal.

"Caro mia, care to join Volfango for some more entertainment?" His golden eyes flicked between Lys and Angel, plainly showing his intentions. The night had only begun and there was far more he wished to experience with the mysterious woman.

What Dom said would make William go wide-eyed and, honestly, made him both furious and taken back by the news. Who would dare not just kill but torture Logan like that? Logan is not weak, but the fact that someone did this to them.... William did not know what to think for a moment. Either these people are ignorant of what is coming for them, or they think they can take on the Iron Fangs. William gritted his teeth, so Alicia was right about something being wrong after all. He thought bitterly to himself.

Either way, now is not a time to mourn Logan but to avenge him and make sure that people know not to mess with the Iron Fang. Then William started getting memories of his old pack. His blood started to boil at the thought and how he failed to save them. Right now, the Iron Fangs need him, and he was sure as hell he was not going to let them down. Not now, not with a packmate dead and the killer out there somewhere in the city. Maybe even planning to kill more of the Iron Fang. They got Logan so who knows who else they will target?

William tried to calm himself down, no. They had to be smart about this, or more may die trying to avenge Logan. The last thing he needs is to learn that one of their own died trying to find who killed Logan.

After listening to what everyone had said, William felt the need to reinforce a point made. But as he was about to speak, Dom spoke up instead and assigned him to work with Alicia. An assignment that William was fine with.

"Will do Dom," William sounding rather confidant. "I know we need to do this right, and I will make sure we do not cause any trouble." Unless trouble comes their way anyway, he worriedly thought, but William is keen on the two of them coming back and finding some clue to who killed Logan. "We will not let you down."