As the tonic slid down her throat, it set fire to everything it touched. It took several moments before it reached her vital organs. When it did, her heart thumped in her chest. And then everything hurt.

Her eyes shot open as she took in a greedy breath of air, her body shooting forward in the seat. Sable’s nails dug into the upholstery under her as her chest heaved. What in the hell had happened? And- where in the hell was she? She realized she was in someone’s vehicle. One that looked way too damn familiar.

Clenching her jaw, she slowly turned her head to look into the driver’s seat. She groaned and rolled her eyes at seeing the man. ”Fuck.”

Locke didn’t flinch when she shot upright. He didn’t flinch when her nails sank into the leather either, though he did mourn the upholstery’s previous perfection. He just stayed exactly where he was, elbow resting loose against the door, head turned just enough to watch her with this subtle, Irish grin.

He clicked his tongue once, quietly, and let his eyes flick from her face down to the way her chest heaved like she’d just clawed her way back from the grave. Which, in a way…she had.

She absolutely did not want to be in this particular car, with this particular Fae, at this particular time. There was no way in hell she was going to be able to explain this all away. Her eyes glanced over to the passenger window, quickly realizing where they were. Sable turned to face him.

He reached over, fingers brushing the edge of her jaw, thumb checking the line of her pulse without asking permission. He scanned her eyes while he did it, close enough that if she breathed too hard she’d taste the clove and bergamot that clung to his collar.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I have you…but please, try not to tear my seats to shreds just yet, aye?” He let the touch drop as casual as it came, hand drifting back to rest across his knee. After the briefest of pauses, he spoke again, more serious this time. “You gonna make it, love?”

Rolling her eyes once more, she allowed him just the single moment to touch her. Damn man was always a hands-on type of Fae. She let her silence give her the time she needed to fully catch her breath, but she brought a hand up and pressed the end of her palm to her temple, wincing at the pressure.

”I’m not worried about my damn safety.” Well. She had been, right before she had passed out. But she had been expecting somebody else entirely to show up. Had she texted the right person? ”I’m fine, Locke. Thank you, or whatever. I need to go.”

Locke’s grin didn’t slip an inch when she snapped at him. If anything, it softened. He just reached into his coat, thumb flicking across his phone screen until the glow of it cut between them.

He tilted it so she couldn’t miss the coordinates staring back at her, her own name above the message.

“Mm… so you’re fine, don’t need me, didn’t need a rescue…” His voice dipped warm, that soft Irish curl thick in his throat. “Guess I dreamed these up then, huh? Look at me, makin’ up longitudes and latitudes again. Talented, aren’t I? Oh…and my, my that must mean I made up the little message you sent earlier too then, huh?” He scrolled up, showing her the subtle little hookup request she had sent clear as day.

He let the screen drop back to his knee, thumb tapping the edge once before he tucked it away again. His eyes found hers, steady, patient in that way that always made him harder to argue with, but with a satisfied grin that was sure to infuriate her.

“You can bark all you want, sweetheart, but you’re not steppin’ out yet.” He nodded toward her chest, the faint pulse still picking up a hitch here and there. “Potion needs to settle in that lovely system of yours. People have been known to twitch, seize, all sorts of pretty little complications when they rush it.”

He leaned in just enough for her to feel the weight of it.
“So sit still for me, just a little longer… and then you can disappear back into whatever shadows you like. But not before I know you won’t drop dead on the pavement two blocks from my door.”

Sable took one look at his phone, her messages, and let her head fall back against the headrest with a muttered curse. While the first text she had sent had definitely been meant for him, the second wasn’t. The man got on every last one of her nerves and knew it. But damn, the things he could do to make her forget her own name.

Her eyes flashed dangerously when he mentioned the potion. She snapped her attention over to him as a low growl pulled from her chest. ”A fucking potion?! Quickly sitting up once more, she bit back a cry at the pain in her head. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before opening them once more, glaring at the man next to her.

”You had no fucking right to poison me with one of your damn concoctions.” Sable let out an incredulous laugh. She tried to hide the flinch in her face from the pain that caused her, but failed. Shaking her head, she grabbed onto the door handle. ”And you’re sure as hell not keeping me in here. We both know you don’t give a damn if I live or die.”

Locke just watched as she spoke.

There was a stillness to him, there always was, but after a moment he responded calmly.

His words came out like velvet.

“You think poison brings you back from the edge, sweetheart?”

His eyes stayed on her steady as he looked through her bravado.

“You were slipping,” he murmured. “Heartbeat like a dying clock... barely breathing when I got here. What I gave you wasn't poison…It was simply the gift of a little more time.”

He tilted his head slightly, that Irish lilt curling through the air like smoke.

“So curse me, if it makes you feel better. I’ll survive it.”

His gaze flicked to her hand on the door. He didn’t reach for it.

“But don’t insult Mercy and I by pretending you woulda’ made it another five minutes if we hadn’t come to your rescue.”

He let the pause linger. then his voice dropped lower, quiet enough it almost didn’t carry, but it did. It always did just enough.

“And don’t mistake kindness for indifference, Sable.”

His voice was doing things to her that she never would admit to. Sable’s jaw clenched when he mentioned how badly she had been off and she swore under her breath. Of all the things to save her life, she never would have expected it to have been a Fae. Well, at least not without her owing them something. Damnit.

He leaned back, hands folded, composure unshaken..

“You’re still here aren’t ya? To me that means something.”

Then he reached across her, slow and deliberate, and pressed the lock back down with two fingers. Not rough or forceful, but all kinds of final.

“Let the potion do its thing a few minutes more. I’ll even let you pretend that none of this even happened.”

And fuck, her head was killing her. She closed her eyes and bit back a groan at the pain just as she sensed him leaning over her. Her eyes shot open to see his arm directly in front of her, his fingers securing the lock once more. A nerve ticked in her jaw.

He let his lips brush against her neck right where he knew she could barely resist, the corner of his mouth hinting at a smile as he lifted to whisper in her ear.

”Locke, I swear-” Her breath hitched at the contact, her eyes fluttering to a close.

“I’ve never let you leave unsatisfied before. Even you wouldn’t try to lie about that. We both know how true it is.” His hand, still leaning against the door where lock is, braces as his body closes the distance between them even more. “All you gotta do to pay me back is stay a little longer…just until I know you’re gonna be okay.”

The scent of him wrapped around her, dulling her senses. Sable’s eyes opened just partly, hooded by his nearness. She slowly looked up, her chin tilting back slightly until she met his eyes. She literally had almost just died, and this guy was using his body to shut her up. Another growl left her.

Fuck it.

Quickly bringing her right hand up, her fingers grasped the edge of his jaw as she pulled him the rest of the way to her before crashing her lips against his.

She failed to look him in the eye - she still couldn't, she found. As Dominic spoke to her, she did listen, however. "Find the people asking the wrong questions..." She echoed. "I think I follow." She affirmed, eyes still averted as she backed away. God, he was intimidating, she thought as she barely suppressed a shudder when she turned her back and made for the rear of the makeshift chapel. She joined William this time, standing beside him as she awaited the conclusion of their Church session. 'We will not let you down', he had said. Yeah, damn right, Alicia thought. It's all our asses on the line.

"You heard him. Hunt smart." Alicia whispered to William as the session came to a close. "Looks like you're my ride-along. Or the other way around. Whatever." She grumbled as she walked ahead of him, joining the throng of Lycans slowly easing back into the Cracked Fang itself. "All I'm asking for is that you watch my back and don't talk to me too much, you got it? This is off-contract for me, but we're still just coworkers."

She crossed her arms, dimly realizing Tessa still had her jacket. Oh well. As they stepped into the fluttering light of the bar, Alicia found them a small table - too near the center of the building for her usual liking, but the place was more packed than usual for obvious reasons. Sitting across from William, she idly gazed over the menu as if she didn't already have it memorized. "Alright, so, cards on the table. I haven't been around Blood Market Row. Not my usual haunt - you familiar?" She asked, but without waiting for his answer, continued. "That being said, I have an idea what we're looking for to start with."

She leaned back, kicking her boots up on the table as a lycan waitress growled at her nearby. She shrunk, and sheepishly lowered her legs, coughing awkwardly. "Dom uh... Mentioned people asking the wrong questions. While we could start with the youngbloods and fresh recruits, most of them are gonna tell any old weirdo on the street to fuck off. What we need are people like informants and fixers." She said, leaning forward now, her gaze refocusing as she fell into a flow. "Dom said there's someone - singular - looking for as much information on the pack as they can, but instead of playing Where's Waldo, we should probably try tracing back through any resources they might be using to GET that information, you know?"

She waited on William's answer, and clicked her tongue as she collected her final thoughts. "Guess my only question is do we roll out tonight, or wait 'til the day. Gotta weigh relative safety against time - longer we wait, the more chance that asshole has to slip the net. Because by now-" She met William's gaze. "They definitely know we know. We know and we're looking for them. If they felt confident making a move on Logan like that, then they're probably ready for reprisal." She rested her cheek on her palm, idly tapping her nails on the tabletop. "So that's my pitch. We cast a wider net, try and figure out who has and hasn't been talking to this shitter, and narrow down from there. Blood Market Row's a place to start, but we don't have to go by Dom's word alone. Except for the whole... Play it smart thing. I don't wanna get into any fights even with you - no offense."

"And uh..." She continued, before holding out her hand, straightening her back and mastering her expression in some fascimile of professionalism. "Nice to finally work with you properly. I guess." She conceded. Wouldn't do to be TOO much of a bitch to the dude she'd be working with for the forseeable future.

"It looks like we are partners for now." William replied to Alicia as he left the hideout and later sat down on a table she chose.

William found it interesting that he now had to work with Alicia now after just meeting her. All he knows is that they share the same place to get food, The Golden Wok. Well, at least he knows something about her, and William may learn more about her since they are now working together. But finding out who killed Logan takes priority, so maybe not.

Now, when Alicia brought up the Blood Market Row and asked if he had ever been there. Once he had, a long time ago, with his old pack. Not as a dealer but as protection for his old pack's dealer. William was not sure if he should say that, since it was a long time ago, and things surely have changed since he went there last. But William felt like being honest with his new partner, and it would not hurt, right?

"Once, I went to the Blood Market Row with someone a long time ago." William replied, "I doubt I will recognize anyone there, but who knows, maybe somethings stayed the same since my visit."

William kept listening to what Alicia was saying. He had to note that she seemed on top of what needed to be done, and he would agree with her plan of action. "I agree with that, Alicia, finding them will not be easy unless we do this the right way, and I think you know how to do that." At least at the moment, he thought

When Alicia brought up her last question to him, William would cross his arms. "That is a good question, Alicia,", which he would ponder and lean back in his chair. Since time is not on their side, going now would be prudent, but whoever killed Logan would know that the pack is after them once they find out and may have eyes on the pack. But if they wait until day, then maybe it will be safer for them and get a better chance of finding who killed Logan.

For a moment, the thought weighed on his mind, and when he had an answer, William met Alicia's gaze. Leaning forward and spoke, "I think we should head to the Blood Market Row now. Time is not on our side, and we should not wait while they get farther from our grasp. I agree with your pitch and have no problems with it, but yeah, I do not want to fight since that could complicate things. So I understand that."

Then when Alicia held out her hand and spoke about working together. William uncrossed his arms and with a soft smile. He reached out and shook Alicia's hand with a firm but casual grip. "It is nice to be working with you, too." Hopefully, they can work together and not resort to arguing and fighting each other during this hunt. That is the last thing he wants, but now is the time to see how good of a partner Alicia can be.

Lys didn’t need long.

The glamor was cute.

Golden hair, softer angles, a different sway to her hips–but Lys had known her through fire. You didn’t forget someone like Angel. You didn’t unfeel someone like her.

The woman dancing across the floor wasn’t hiding from the room. She was hiding from those who knew her. And that included Lys. Which, frankly, only made Lys want to chase her more.

She tilted her head, letting her gaze linger just long enough for Angel to feel it. Like the brush of a fingertip behind the ear–soft, but unmistakable. Her lips curved into something wicked and slow, too knowing to be innocent, too pleased to be safe.

Oh, petal…playing pretend? You should know better by now. I invented the game.

Still, she didn’t call her out. Didn’t shout across the club or carve her name from the stars. She just let it simmer. Let Angel wonder.

Volfango’s approach didn’t go unnoticed either. His presence was bold as always–those sin-stained golden eyes, that casually undone shirt clinging to the sculpted chaos of a man who knew exactly how good he looked. She could still taste him on her tongue, feel his magic humming through her bones like the leftover crackle of lightning.

When he leaned in, claiming space like it already belonged to him, Lys let him. Let his voice curl around her like smoke, let the spark of his touch tease goosebumps across her skin. Gods, he was decadent. Dangerous. A perfectly wicked match. But he certainly would never own her.

Her eyes slid to his as he whispered against her ear, and her grin deepened, curling like a ribbon pulled tight.

Then, as Volfango’s question curled in the air, Lys turned her attention to him like flipping a coin. Something light and casual, with mischief tucked beneath every word.

”Strange,” she mused, her tone rich as spiced wine. ”For a heartbeat, I thought she looked like someone I used to know.” She trailed a nail lazily along the rim of his open collar, lips twitching.

A beat passed, and she added with deliberate softness,
”But that girl wore wildfire in her hair. This one’s cloaked in starlight.” No lie. Just carefully barbed honesty. To Angel, the truth would strike like a spark. To Volfango, it would read as idle poetry.

And that, darling, was the art.

Lys laughed quietly, like something bubbling over after being corked too long. ”Either way…” she purred, casting a final glance toward Angel…slow, deliberate, scorching… ”I’ve always been one to welcome unexpected guests into the chaos. The more, the merrier.”

---

Kessler left the Cracked Fang in both shock and renewed determination. In part, he couldn’t believe what he had just seen, and what he had just said. Not that anything he said had been untrue. Far from it. But it was unlike him to speak his mind openly and without reservation. He could smell the winds of change as surely as the boxes of rotting produce trimmings on the sidewalk in Chinatown. And with that came an air of uncertainty. A lot of the Pack would be out looking for blood, and to hear Lucian’s mind, he expected the same of Kessler. Now, the big man was known to crack skulls in the name of Dominic Blackmoore, but he wasn’t without his own allotment of brain cells and while Lucian might have thought him devoid of subtlety, Kessler could be a tactician when it was called-for.

And at this point, he knew there was one move he could make it very few other Lycans would even consider. He knew what he had to do. Knew what would serve the Pack best. He straddled his bike and kicked the big engine to life, roaring off into the night, and the neon quarter.

The night was starting to show its age. Even at the liveliest of clubs in the quarter, more patrons were now stumbling out than filing in. Street traffic was scant, and alleys and parking lots were silent. Wulde’s scooter had been the only thing moving outside the Neon Dream Rink as the Warden arrived there. The first signs of life he encountered were the handful of staff scuttling about within, readying the cavernous skating facility for its morning onslaught of eager kids. The last of the late-night skaters had already left, although the smell of their feet still echoed through the air.

A few of the employees shot the newcomer a questioning, possibly challenging look as he entered their territory, a challenge which he met by displaying a grubby membership card for the Neon Dream Racquetball Club. The name on the card was not Wulde’s, but that did not matter. de facto possession of the card was sufficient to establish his business here; thus, upon seeing it, the workers returned sullenly to their cleaning.

There wasn’t actually a racquetball club here, anyway. There had been, but the six courts had long since been repurposed, the dividing walls between them removed to convert them into two indoor fighting pits. In these wee hours, some of Wulde’s fellow Wardens liked to come here to let off steam, and after the night he had had, Wulde had built up some steam pressure of his own. As he approached the storage rooms through gallery skirting the roller rink, the Warden could start to make out the shouts issuing from the fighting area. He paused just outside a locker room, set his gym bag down, leaned against a wall, and focused on his breathing. Some folks liked to “psych up” before a fight, listening to loud music, jumping about, dancing, flexing and shouting. Wulde preferred to quiet down, to have his mind as clear, focused, and level as possible before going in; there would be excitement and energy aplenty once he entered the arena.

The big ‘Fat Bob’ burbled, popped and rumbled into the parking lot of the Neon Dream Roller Rink. He killed the engine a dozen paces from what passed for a parking spot, and rolled the bike to a silent stop as the rain hissed on the ticking engine. Kess dropped the kickstand, shaking his head at the partially-lit neon sign, buzzing with its repetitious strobing. Several letters were no longer working, and if one were to take the sign literally – ‘eon ream’ it would mean something else entirely, Kessler thought to himself. He stepped off his ride, setting the ‘safety,’ which essentially involved removing one of the plug wires, shoving it into one of the pockets in his kutte. He stood and lit a cigarette, took a long drag. Took a look at his knuckles, still red from his fight at the Halo before ‘Church.’ His eye was still bruised, too, but it was a damn sight better than it had been an hour ago. Taking a look around, he took off his kutte, and stashed it. No point in throwing up a flag like that. He had no illusions about what going in here might mean, but best intentions, blah, blah, blah. Fuck it. Time was wastin’.

Kessler was a big man, 6’5” and nearly half that height across the shoulders. When he stepped to the front doors, the same few employees who had looked questioningly at Wulde, barred his way, one holding up a hand to Kessler’s chest. “Don’t know you, man. You got no business here.”

Kessler raised an eyebrow, reached slowly into his right seat pocket in his dark, cuffed jeans as if to get his wallet, and slowly withdrew his hand, holding it up in front of the employee’s face, showing him how deeply bruised the knuckles were. “You know me…”

The employee muttered “Fuck!” and took a step back when Kessler raised his hand, but after looking at it for a moment, drew the obvious conclusion about why he was there.

“No, I don’t know you,” he responded once he’d recovered some composure: “but knock yourself out, man. Can’t promise they’ll let you in, though, not without a card or an invite from a member.”

The employee took another step back. His coworkers just stood by and eyed Kessler apprehensively. No one else would impede his progress.

Wulde roused from his quasi-meditation when he heard a male voice approaching from the direction of the arena. A large, well-dressed man with a telltale earpiece walked towards him, talking to someone unseen. “Yeah, I’m checking it out”, the man told his invisible friend.

He looked directly at Wulde, stopped, and announced: “I see him.” Then, raising his voice slightly, he called: “Excuse me, sir! Let’s see your card.”

Wulde held up his bogus racquetball membership, and recognition filled the man’s face. “Oh, it’s fine,” he announced to his unseen interlocutor: “it’s that Ritter guy. Yeah, he’s okay. Thank you, sir.” With a polite nod to Wulde, the man started to turn back towards the arena but then stopped short, listening intently and wrinkling his brow in confusion.

“Other guy? What other guy? I don’t see anybody else. Did anyone follow you in, sir?” he asked Wulde, who shook his head.

Mr. Evan T. Staff peered up the corridor towards the entrance and waited. Wulde looked in the same direction, placing his hand oh-so-lightly on one of the side pockets of his gym bag.

Kessler nodded appreciatively to the staffer who had not-exactly given him a pass, but certainly gave him the go-ahead to try the place on for size. He wasn’t sure how that would go, but he was willing to press his luck, and see it through. For Logan. For the Pack. And hell – for the humans. If his hunch was right, they would want what he sought, just as bad. He moved off, from the entrance, and into the roller rink, down a side passageway that his nose told him was the direction of blood, and sweat. (two things he hoped not to trade in, tonight.) A pair of figures loomed in the shadowy distance, and Kessler’s eyes narrowed as he approached. “ ‘Evenin’ gents. I’m looking for something. Care to guess?”

The Warden and the security guy responded to Kessler’s opening ploy with the same expression: a frown that was a mixture of bafflement and annoyance. Guy thinks he’s some frickin’ action hero making a badass entrance, Wulde thought.

Security Guy’s take on the situation was more prosaic. “Sir, I have no idea who you are or what you might be looking for, but I’m pretty sure it’s not here,” he said, stepping forward to intercept Kessler: “This is a private event for members and invited guests only. You don’t need to come any farther.”

By now, Kessler had come close enough for Wulde to see his face. It took him a moment to recognize it. I’ve seen that face tonight, he realized. He’s one of the Iron Fangs. And with that, he could indeed take a guess as to what he was looking for, although…how had he found Wulde so fast? He needed to speak up before Security Guy did something to lose a tooth. Or an arm.
“I’ve seen him around,” he announced, nodding towards Kessler. “We haven’t been introduced yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s me he wants to talk to.”

The employee looked dubiously between the two men. “Is he your guest tonight, sir?”

Wulde listened a moment to the noises of fighting coming from the arena behind him, and decided he had a better idea. He looked at Kessler. “The roller rink upstairs has a food court. It’s closed right now, but there are tables and chairs, and it’ll be comfortable and quiet. How about we have a chat there?”

It was no ploy. It was merely the truth. Kessler replied to Security Guy when he offered that he was ‘pretty sure it’s not here’ with “Oh, it’s here alright.” He listened to the human speak, about the food court, about being comfortable and quiet – not that either were requirements. “Sounds good. Lead the way, friend.” Kessler cheshire-cat smiled at the confounded Security Guy and followed the other man up the stairs into a cafeteria-style eatery that looked as though it was straight out of the 1970’s, and smelled of chicken strips and old fryer oil. Kessler turned a chair around backwards to sit in, pulling it up close to one of several melamine tables, and sat, chest against the chair back, elbows on the table, facing the man.

“So, tell me why it’s you I want to talk to, and how you knew I was looking for this conversation.”

"Let's make tracks then." Alicia said, rising from the table. "Gotta buy a new jacket now anyway..." She mumbled, not really intending any ire. "Do hope Tessa's okay." She added offhandedly, glancing at William over her shoulder as they passed through the door and into the night. "Everyone was pretty fucked up about this all but I think she took it hardest. Least far as I can see." She continued, giving a brief, petty little 'heh'. "No matter how hard I try, I can't really get into Dom's head, and especially not Kessler. Lot of the Fangs are a rowdy bunch, kind of crowd I was pretty used to seeing, uh-" She stopped herself short. "Never mind. Got nostalgic about some stupid bullshit."

Silence fell between the pair as they wove through the moon-kissed streets of Halcyon. She felt eyes on them - but nothing more than the knowing gazes of other Lycans, or the lingering gazes of loud college boys landing on the goth bitch on the sidewalk. Her paranoia never quite let up, and only began to worsen once they were out of the Fangs' territory in full. She nudged William with her elbow. "Remember, we're trying to sniff out a trail via the people who sell information. Where we find those people is uh..." She cleared her throat. She was mostly trying to get her mind off the unease, but it helped to find that point of focus either way. "Well, we improvise. Maybe we start- What's the term I'm looking for... False flagging?"

She snaps her fingers, eyes widening with realization. "Yeah. We start acting like we're the ones asking after Fang higher-ups." She explained, tugging again on Will's sleeve. "Get people to point us towards y'know, people who know shit about the Fangs and have been selling that information and then in the process we could start feeding them misinfo." She continued. "And whoever acts on that fake information - well we know who's been squealing for one. That narrows things down."

She spread her lips into a grin, her fangs glistening, as she punched William in the arm playfully. "Then sic you or, like, Kessler on 'em." She said, cracking her knuckles. "Well, implying Kessler isn't already ripping someone to shreds tonight..." She mused, shoving her hands in her pockets, coughing awkwardly. "Meh."

She glanced sidelong at William, tilting her head. "Hey, you're a bit of a stray mutt like me. You wound up here. Got any stories? Any idea at all what you were up to before..." She clicked her tongue, nodding abstractly at the buildings. "Y'know, was there a 'before Halcyon' for you, or you a local?" She asked. "Just uh... Filling the air, I guess. Walking like this in silence gets me antsy, or something..."

, @FunnyGuy Sean Stone

---

Wulde set his own chair the right way round, although pulled back a bit from the table and turned partly to the right, so that he wouldn’t bump his legs if he had to get up suddenly. He draped his coat over the back, then set his gym bag down on another chair that he pulled next to him before sitting down. The only weapon he carried was an expandable baton strapped to his right thigh. The Warden had requested a silvered one a couple days before, upon getting the assignment to peep on the Iron Fangs with Barton, and to his pleasant surprise had been issued it right away.

From a side pocket of the gymbag he extracted his phone and began pressing some buttons. “I’m going to mute any notifications so we aren’t disturbed,” he explained, which was true -although he also took the opportunity to press some other buttons as well before putting the device back in the bag: “And yes, I’m recording this,” Wulde added, almost as an afterthought. “Price of admission.” He grinned as the double meaning of that last phrase occurred to him.

“...So, tell me why it’s you I want to talk to, and how you knew I was looking for a conversation.”

Wulde had let the visitor’s request hang in the air while he attended to preliminaries, but now he sat back and contemplated, as if noticing it for the first time. After a pause he said: “It is customary for somebody initiating contact to identify themselves and state their business. I’m guessing that you aren’t much for etiquette and formalities, so I’ll ignore that and play along.

“I am a Warden. My name is Wulde Riddenhouse. You are an Iron Fang. I don’t know your name offhand, but I could probably look it up easily enough.” He gestured with his hand towards Kessler: “Or, you could just tell me.”

Wulde did not wait to see if the lycan would do that, but instead pressed on. “Whatever your name, you have some status in the pack. You might even be here talking to me at Dominic Blackmoor’s behest.

“Why are you looking for a conversation? Because you want to know if the Wardens had anything to do with what you all found in that warehouse. I won’t keep you in suspense: No, we did not.”

Wulde stopped to peer inquisitively at his guest. “How am I doing so far?”

Kess ignored the human’s request for validation. He was, at the same token, gratified that his hunch had been right about finding a Warden in this area. That he had tracked one down at only his second port of call, was simply good luck – but he didn’t feel the need to edify this Human any more than he felt was necessary.

“In the Pack I am known only as Kessler. A long, long time ago though, I had a name from your world. Damon.” His mouth forming the shape of his Christian name felt foreign to him, even as the word left his mouth. The broad-shouldered man felt no need to clarify whether he ‘had standing’ within the pack. “Perhaps that is why I’m here, rather than out there, cracking skulls. It’s good to meet you, Wulde.” His salutation bore no discernable sarcasm, or animosity. It merely was.

“We lost a brother last night. Someone took him from us. Someone without respect, or decency. Someone either very stupid, or very much the opposite. It was either a calculated hit by someone looking to start a war, or the work of rank amateurs who simply didn’t know that they were standing in a lake of gasoline, about to strike a match.” He leaned forward, close enough that Wulde could make out the scent of his breath. “I don’t believe it was the latter. *a pause* Now, it is my good fortune that I met you. A Warden willing to talk to the likes of me. Don’t think I would take that for granted. I won’t. You say the Wardens had nothing to do with Logan’s death… convince me.”

Wulde listened closely as the lycan spoke. He nodded to acknowledge the name. “Kessler”, he repeated. It was a name he thought he remembered seeing or hearing in conjunction with the Iron Fangs. The older human name was not familiar. The Wardens might or might not have some dossier on that somewhere. Still, Wulde filed the name “Damon” away. One never discarded anything unless necessary, especially not information, no matter how insignificant-seeming.

He also filed away the other name Kessler dropped: Logan. Lieutenant Grant had spent hours in video conference with the Bastion, poring over the faces captured by their camera outside the warehouse that night, cross-checking them with known associates of the Iron Fangs and attaching names to them. The list of known Iron Fangs who hadn’t showed had dwindled to just a handful of names by the time Wulde and Barton had taken their leave of the South Halcyon Friends Meeting House. “Logan” was presumably one of those names. Now Wulde had confirmation.

At Kessler’s concluding request, the human frowned. “Convince you? Not sure how I’d prove a negative to you,” he pointed out. “I can tell you this, though: I spent the better part of an hour poking around that warehouse after you guys left, after somebody had smoked it out- they actually pulled me off another assignment in order to do that poking. I don’t think my superiors would have diverted resources like that if they already knew what happened.”

Kessler’s eyes narrowed, though he made no move whatsoever. “I don’t think you understand, Wulde. I came here to find a Warden. I’ve found one. I either leave from my talk with a Warden, convinced that war is coming for you and yours, or convinced that the path to the truth lies elsewhere. Now, if you can’t prove to me that the Wardens had nothing to do with Logan’s death, then we best be on our way to someone above you, who can provide me with some proof.” His eyes were hard. He stood, and walked over to the service counter to the closed cafeteria, grabbing a coke from under the counter, and leaving a fiver on the counter-top. He popped the tab.

“This is your chance. There is only one. I either return to the Pack with concrete evidence that it wasn’t the Wardens, or I return to tell them all Wardens need to die this night, or you kill me, and I don’t return, in which case… see option two.” He smiled thinly. “Guilty until proven innocent. So. Again – convince me. Clear your good names.”

Wulde could only stare at Kessler in disbelief. The problem was not that he could think of nothing to say in response to the Iron Fang’s ultimatum; it was, on the contrary, that he could think of hosts of things to say, almost all of them bound to make the situation worse. The lycan took a moment to grab a soda, which gave the Warden a moment to craft a diplomatic response, something well outside his usual skill set.

Wulde took a deep breath, trying his best not to make it sound like an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand what you expect to walk out of here with,” he said, as calmly as possible. “A signed note from Commander Verren saying it wasn’t us? A taped confession beaten out of some rogue vampire? The only way to prove we didn’t do it is to find out who did, which we are attempting to. Unfortunately our ability to do that has been pretty badly hampered by the fact that *someone* torched the scene before we had a chance to investigate it proper-.”

The Warden realized that he was getting angry and…not diplomatic, so he broke off and took another breath and made “prayer hands” before resuming: “Look, maybe you *want* to start a war over nothing more than your hunch and my inability to prove a negative, but I prefer to believe that you don’t. We don’t have much to go on, but I’ll give you what I can. Here.”

He reached into his gym bag to pull out his phone and searched through some images. He found and expanded the one he had of the strange crew van and the masked individuals hauling a heavy burden (presumably a bagged Logan) into the warehouse. He showed it to Kessler.

“Some of my colleagues got a tip a few days ago that there was ‘suspicious activity’” here he waggled his hands to emphasize the frustrating vagueness of that expression: “at that warehouse, which hadn’t been visited by a soul, not even by squatters or junkies, in a couple months prior. They set up a motion-activated camera and it caught this image. This was from the day before your people found Logan’s body there. There’s a few other images, but they don’t show much more, just the truck coming and going.”

Wulde glanced ruefully at the screen. “There’s no way to know who any of the people in this image are, if they’re Wardens, if that’s Logan… We ran the plates on the van, but they were both expired and stolen.” He looked back at Kessler.

“It’s what we have. If you want more, we’re going to need to go get more. We would need to try to find that van, though I suspect it’s been ditched and torched by now. And we would need to hit the streets and find out if anybody saw anything. It’s your territory, so people might be more likely to talk to you than me.”

The Warden leaned back and looked questioningly at the lycan. “I have the sense that this discussion is going to wrap up soon, and afterward we’ll both need to go back to our cohorts and tell them something. We can tell them we’re working the problem, or we can tell them we’re going to war over it. I prefer the former, what about you?”

The Human’s response started off less-than-forthcoming. Sarcasm, deflection. Kessler was patient throughout Wulde’s bluster and increasing temperature, a neutral expression on his face. It was all a little amusing, honestly. Finally, the Human produced his device, and showed Kessler the goods. “See – that wasn’t so hard, was it, Human?” Kessler pulled out his own phone, holding it close to Wulde’s. “You wouldn’t mind making those pictures sharable, would you? Sure would appreciate it.” After copying the photos to his device (which was otherwise security-protected, so there was nothing Wulde could glean from Kessler’s mobile, other than some progress pics of his bike. He didn’t use the phone much, honestly…) he rose. “So… about that signed letter from Verren…” He broke into a grin. “That was funny as fuck. *a pause* I agree with you. We should report back, tell our superiors that we’re on this. I’ll put an ear to the ground about this van, too. Let’s meet on neutral ground at midnight tomorrow. I’ll bring any new intel I have, you do the same. We might just avoid a war, here...” He grew serious. “Bring Verren. I’d like to meet him.”

He walked for the door. “Don’t go giving me reason to doubt you, Wulde. We got a good thing going on here. Not likely to find too many Lycans willing to talk like this. I’d rather this, then the other alternative …Thanks for the intel.”

Wulde watched Kessler leave, then slumped back in his chair, exhaling in a loud, horsey blow. That sound faded into silence, broken by the bustle of the rink staff’s cleaning and by his own thoughts. The latter were both louder and harder at work than the former.

He had breached security by sharing that image and information, and had exceeded his authority by agreeing to help Kessler, but this was very much an “apologize rather than get permission” situation. While he wasn’t entirely convinced that the Iron Fangs would go to war just on Kessler’s say-so, he was not about to risk anything of value on that suspicion. And he really did think that they were more likely to figure out what had happened to Logan, and who was encroaching on the Iron Fangs’ territory so brazenly, if they worked together. The question was whether he could get the Bastion to agree with him.

Looking at his phone, Wulde realized that the audio was still recording, so he stopped that and then started uploading the audio file to his cloud. A copy of that audio would go with his report. A report which he was now going to have to spend the next couple hours writing, instead of punching his trash-talking co-workers. A report which would be going straight from his workstation into Commander Dane Verren’s inbox, protocol be damned.

Just as he was readying to leave, he noticed a message notification from a fellow Field Warden he had missed earlier.

REPORT. Sometime during the last 24 hrs, an unknown party killed Logan Delaney, Second In Command of the Iron Fangs lycan faction. Iron Fangs members continue to search for the culprit. Be advised that their presence and activity within Halcyon may increase.
Time of Acquisition: ~1900hrs
Source: Informant with high veracity
NFI

Wulde, upon reading the message, could only laugh.

"Time to hunt," William said and got up from his chair and followed Alicia out the door. But, taking a glance at Tessa as he left. "We are all hurting, but yeah. She is hurting the most right now from what I see, and I hope she feels better soon." A touch of sympathy in his voice. She probably would feel better when we find out who did this and is given the chance to hurt whoever killed Logan. At least that is what William thought as they left the Cracked Fang. "Ehhh, I do not try to get into people's heads." William shrugged, "not my thing, and sometimes I do not want to know how other people think. But that is just me."

William silently walked alongside Alicia, focused on the job at hand, and felt secure, though he kept an eye out in case anyone happened to pay attention to them walking around. "I know, I remember." William said while not trying to sound annoyed since he does not have the memory of a goldfish. He knows the general idea of what to do.

His eyes had a curious look in them as he listened to her plan. It was a plan he could get behind, though he had to say his own addition to it."One thing I would like to add is that if anyone happens to know that Logan is dead, then we may have a target on our hands. Since I doubt that anyone outside of the Fangs and the killer knows he is dead." A small advantage if someone slips up and reveals something they shouldn't. But they will not know until they start asking around at the Row. "Otherwise, I see your plan working out." Hopefully, he thought.

William smiled with his fangs showing with a low chuckle, "I bet Kessler would like to do that." The man probably wants to do it badly now after what has happened.

When Alicia felt like talking about strays and sharing stories. William felt he could at least share some on the way to the Blood Market Row. "Well, if you need some noise during this walk. I was born here and lived in some rundown apartment for a time growing up." Now his head tilted with a curious look. "What about you, you born here or came here from elsewhere?"

Locke didn’t flinch when she dragged him in. He simply let her.

For a heartbeat, he let her have the illusion of control, her kiss hitting sharp against his mouth, frantic and angry and desperate all at once. Then, he took over.
Slow, but not rough, his fingers curled at her jaw, steady, grounding her even as her pulse raced against his skin. He kissed her the way he always did when she broke first, drinking in her desperation. The heat between them thickened, breathing heavy enough to fog the windows.

And then...he pulled back.

Not far enough to give her space…but just enough to remind her she wasn’t in charge here. He was her favorite drug, and the chaos in him couldn’t help but make her body beg for more. He dragged the tip of his thumb across her bottom lip as he looked at her with eyes like hunger. His voice, when it came, was low...threaded with that Irish rasp that he knew did things to her she’d never admit.

“Thought you didn’t need me tonight.” He said teasing, his head lowering so his lips could press the faintest kiss against the sensitive skin of her neck.

Without breaking from the act, Locke flicked his fingers once, and Mercy bolted out the window, wings catching the rain as she vanished into the night. He kissed Sable’s neck again, this time with a little more desire...eager to see her next move.

Her chest heaved with both need and frustration at herself. Sable narrowed her eyes at him when he pulled back, knowing exactly what he was doing. The damn man knew her more than she would ever admit to anyone. He was something she craved, and she absolutely hated that he knew it.

The throbbing in her temples was all but forgotten the moment his lips hit her neck. A growl reverberated from her chest. ”I don’t need you. I hate you.”

Letting out a shaky breath, her eyes closed once more and she bit down hard onto her lip to not give him the pleasure of her sounds. She was not going to fall for this again. Damnit, she was stronger than this.

”You know I can make you stop.” A warning, yet one that held no real malice.

The grin that appeared on his face, now reaching territory that could be described as utterly arrogant, was one that he felt he had earned here. “Oh I know you could...You could open that door and walk away right now if you really, really wanted to...” He said, his breath hot against her neck. “Or, you could be a good girl and show me just how much you hate me...We both know how good that hate feels, don’t we, love?” His hand trailed up the distance of her leg as he kissed her neck again, letting her feel the desire coursing through his body.

Her eyes had momentarily darted over to the car door, her eyes on the handle. All it would take was to reach one hand out to pull it, and she would be outside. Sable extended the fingers of her right hand and moved her hand to the side. However, the praise that left his lips immediately made her body freeze. She couldn’t help the parting of her lips or her eyes starting to roll back in her head.

Damnit.

Bringing both hands up, she shoved them against his chest hard enough for the Fae to fall back against his own seat. She growled under her breath before bringing one knee up to her chest. It didn’t take much for Sable to push herself off of the passenger seat and climb into his lap. Straddling both thighs on either side of his legs, she looked down at his face and shook her head.

”This doesn’t mean anything.” She had said it every single time, and meant it. Yet the fact that he had saved her from dying shifted a foreign part of her that she wasn’t ready to face. The woman grabbed at the bottom of his shirt before crashing her lips once more against his in a fiery kiss.

Locke didn’t fight her when she shoved him back...nor did he resist when she climbed into his lap like she owned the very space between them. His hands slid to her thighs instinctively, and he couldn’t help but squeeze them as he pressed his body upwards against her.

Sable played her little game like always, but her mouth on his told the real story. He caught her lower lip between his teeth in the kiss, slow enough to make her shiver, then pulled back just far enough for her to see the grin curving his mouth.

“Oh no, of course not, love...It never does.”

His voice dropped low, laced with that Irish curl, and Locke’s lips found hers again, hotter...hungrier, as the car’s windows began to fog with the evidence of what neither of them could deny.

There was no more talking.

Dante Virelli

Location: The Bastion - Personal Workshop

The flickering buzz of an overhead lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered workbench. Half eaten cheeseburger in one hand, warm, half melted milkshake in the other, Dante Virelli sat hunched over a sheet of oil stained parchment. His mess of black curls still bore the flattened imprint of a bunk pillow. The Bastion never truly slept, however. Grinding gears, echoing bootfalls, distant howls, but the halls were still quiet enough for thoughts to crawl in. Dante took another bite of the burger, jaw working as his other hand moved with mechanical certainty across the page. A sketch formed: Sleek, spring loaded vambraces capable of launching silver stakes with a flick of the wrist. He chewed. Considered. Crossed out a segment. Scribbled again, this time a modular design with rune inscribed cartridges, maybe for varying monster types. Vampires. Lycans. Fae. His foot tapped restlessly beneath the table.

“Effective,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep. “Also, wildly illegal under the Warden Oath if you forget the runic limiter.”

Not that it mattered. Morality was a clock with too many moving parts. One crack in the glass and time got slippery. Dante had seen it. The Wardens were supposed to be humanity’s blade against the dark, but sometimes blades turned. Sometimes it bled its own, like it had bled his parents. Dante’s glance fell from his paper onto the twin obsidian daggers resting in their velvet lined slot beside him. Each was carved with the blood rune seal of House Virelli, engraved in the language of old magitech. One had a chipped edge.

He didn’t polish them. They were meant to kill, not to shine.

"Better to be the hand that forges the weapon," his father used to say, "than the fool who trusts it blindly."

Dante swallowed the last of the burger, dropped the wrapper into a bin already overflowing with failed blueprints and half shattered gear components. He angled the next drawing into the lamplight. This one was different: A neural linked gauntlet designed to trigger a spectral snare, a tool that could trap the supernatural. “Problem is…” he mumbled, fingers drumming, “...if it works, it doesn’t just catch the monsters.” It could trap practically anyone, or anything, making friendly fire a high concern. Was it worth it? Was anything, really, when justice came ten years too late and smelled like blood-soaked metal?

Dante glanced around the workshop. Cables snaked across the stone floor like the entrails of some long forgotten machine, tangled and half alive. The sharp scent of solder and oil hung in the air. Tools were scattered like shrapnel across every surface. Wrenches crusted with ichor, broken lenses, rune-burned pliers, and scorched gloves. A cracked photo of his parents, young, dressed in formal Warden greys, was taped to the far wall. He'd stopped looking at it directly years ago, but today... today it pulled at him. His mother’s eyes were bright even in the black and white print, her mouth betraying a smile. His father stood just behind her, a hand on her shoulder, posture like stone, gaze sharp enough to cut through the Veil.

What would they think of him now? The boy they left behind. The boy The Bastion rebuilt from ash and grief. The young man who couldn’t stop inventing new ways to kill things faster, and more efficiently. Dante sometimes wondered if he was building things to protect humanity… or to punish the same world that took his parents. Dante exhaled and let his focus fall back toward his bench. He leaned back in his chair, stretching muscles still sore from the last hunt. Sunlight hadn’t touched the Bastion, but above the iron slat vent to his left, a faint breeze whispered through. Cold, sterile, and mechanical reminding him the world was turning. Time marched on, whether he did or not.

He clicked his pen. Drew a new schematic. Dante leaned forward, elbow knocking aside a cracked crystal energy capacitor, and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him. The old kind, because digital blueprints couldn’t capture the mess in his head. His hand moved quickly. First came the skeletal frame of the gauntlet; sleek along the forearm, plating designed to flex with movement. The housing units came next. Four chambers, each labeled with tiny, hurried shorthand: Nightshade-X, Redspire Serum, Viper-Veil, Ghostfire Dust. Every enhancement serum the Wardens had cataloged. Dante sketched microtubes coiled like veins, each one feeding into a central injector port buried into the palm. A clenched fist represented the trigger mechanism. Just one motion, and all four doses would slam into the user’s bloodstream. No hesitation. No turning back.

His pen paused, before continuing. Dilated pupils, vascular overgrowth, joint distortion. Scribble. Loss of speech. Rapid neurodegeneration. Madness. Death. A note was added to the top of the page: “Temporary godhood. Permanent damnation.”

Dante sat back and stared at what he’d drawn. From an engineering standpoint, it was brilliant. From a humanity standpoint, horrifying. The idea came from a place not of duty, or even rage, but of desperation. A Warden facing a swarm of thralls alone? A greater vampire? An entire Lycan clan? A brother in arms charging into the dark, veins glowing, voice lost to screams, a living weapon tearing through horrors like a divine plague. Not a Warden, or Man, just… It.

Dante felt the bile rise in his throat. He exhaled sharply, pen clattering to the bench. He balled up the parchment, knuckles white, and flung it across the room. The paper hit the edge of the trash bin and then bounced off and rolled beneath a shelf already drowning in blueprints of other discarded sins. “Desperation isn’t design,” he muttered, more to himself than the silence around him. “Not yet.”

Dante rubbed his eyes with ink-stained fingers and reached for a new sheet. Something practical this time. Something… humane, as he awaited a message from Commander Dane or a fellow Warden. Yet, he secretly wished the next notification would be the old dating app he’d downloaded months ago. Mostly as a joke, but it still pinged now and then, less looking for a love connection and more so to scratch that desperate itch in the middle of too many long nights alone.