“I’m guessing it isn’t the latest Stephen King.” Chase studied the book. “Wait. Is that the book Shirl gave you as we were leaving her store?”
Tanner nodded. “It’s a journal. A were journal, from one of the first eastern wolves to migrate to Oregon in the mid eighteen hundreds. It’s a history, Chase. A history of our kind in this state.”
Chase looked at the book with new appreciation. “A real written history?” Chase brushed another tear from Tanner’s face with his thumb. “Is that what’s got you so bothered?”
Tanner glared at him, even though his eyes remained bright with tears. “Not the existence of it, although that’s enough to make me want to dance around the cabin and howl.” His breath caught on a hiccup. “The were who wrote it, Josiah Washington, he’d just found out that his friend William Grant—and by the way he writes of him, I think they were probably lovers, although of course he couldn’t put that in writing where anyone might find it. Anyway, he’d just found out that William wouldn’t be joining him in Oregon. William was a conductor for the Underground Railroad, and he was—” Tanner swallowed. “He was shot leading a group of slaves north from Georgia.”
Chase’s jaw dropped. “A were interacting with humans?”
“It wasn’t so odd in the early days, especially after European weres came over and started to mingle with the natives. Although even back then, we were more likely to be the indentured servants than the wealthy landowners.”
Chase stood and extended a hand, drawing Tanner to his feet. “Come tell me about it while we eat.”
Tanner didn’t resist, allowing Chase to lead him to the breakfast bar, where he sat down, the book cradled against his chest. “By the early eighteen hundreds, the eastern werewolves were already feeling the pinch.”
Chase cut a wedge of the Dutch baby and set it on Tanner’s plate, then added a half-dozen slices of bacon and several sausages. “Of the expanding human population you mean?”
“No. Of the systematic slaughter of the gray wolf population. Weres had always found it easier and quicker to travel in shifted form, but now, it was just as likely they’d get shot by an overzealous farmer or hunter.”
Chase paused in the act of cracking eggs into a skillet. “You mean—”
“I mean that our history, our traditions, are tied in with the fate of the wolf populations—because when we’re in shifted form, we’re indistinguishable except in size.” Tanner pushed bacon around his plate. “Even after we’re dead.”
The egg sizzled in the pan, staring back at Chase with its baleful yellow eye. “Shit.” How many weres were murdered and skinned during the extirpation of the wolf population?
“Josiah and his group were supposed to be preparing for the arrival of a number of packs from the south. At least two groups arrived after Josiah, but William stayed behind. He didn’t want to abandon his work with the Underground Railroad. He’d promised Josiah in a letter that this would be his last one. But he was killed when his group was halfway through Tennessee.”
The egg was overdone, dark brown around the edges. Chase cursed under his breath and took it off the heat. He didn’t feel like eating eggs anyway. “I guess Josiah was heartbroken.”
Tanner nodded. “Listen to this.” The book fell open at the leather bookmark. “‘O, that bright evening star extinguish’d.’”
Chase’s own eyes prickled with tears. “Shit.”
“But that didn’t stop him. He kept working to absorb more weres from the south and east, although a lot of them kept going north into Canada and what later became Alaska. But some of them stayed. He even mentions some Mexican wolves joining them.” He raised shining eyes to Chase. “One of them was named Carlos Araya.”
“You’re kidding. Your ancestor?”
“My grandfather, I think.” Tanner picked up a piece of bacon and munched absently. “Didn’t you ever wonder why there’s such a generation gap in US packs these days? I mean, weres are incredibly long-lived, but the oldest were I know of is only about a hundred and thirty. There weren’t any born between about 1900 until the late fifties, and even then, the birthrate was low.”
“Probably because all of them were getting too long in the fang by then.”
“We didn’t start seeing an increase until that generation got old enough to mate. The were baby boom didn’t start until the eighties. And you know something else? The reason for the Howling used to be educational.”
“Isn’t that what it is now?” Chase grinned. “Learning how to control our natures in front of those fragile and litigious humans?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean it wasn’t intended to teach juniors how to hide. It was to share skills. Learn trades that their home pack might lack. Form new alliances. It was about socialization and sharing. To spread information, not contain it. The reason juniors went back to their home pack wasn’t for power consolidation or because tradition demanded it.” Tanner gazed into Chase’s eyes. “It was for safety. The pack compounds were created so we wouldn’t get murdered.”
Chase dropped onto his stool. “Remus’s fucking blood.”
Tanner gripped Chase’s arm. “They weren’t supposed to be prisons bound by tradition. They were intended to be refuges. Safe houses, like this one. But the thing is, once the Howling was over, the juniors didn’t necessarily go back to their original pack. They weren’t stupid. They wanted to keep the gene pool viable.”
“So why don’t we know about this?”
“Because by 1930, the gray wolf population was essentially eliminated from the United States. We were hiding. And when you’re afraid, everything seems like a threat. Even your former friends and neighbors.”
The enormity of what Tanner had just told him made Chase dizzy. “You know what this means?”
“I do.” Tanner’s mouth firmed, his jaw tightening. “It means our rules, our laws, those sacred pack alpha traditions my uncle is always on about—they’re a bunch of bullshit. Because they’re not based on power and authority at all. They’re based on fear.”
“What it means,” Chase said slowly, “is revolution.”
Revolution. Truths that would shake werewolf society to its roots. But more than that, it meant that weres like Tanner and Hector, like Chase, didn’t have to conform to their pack’s expectations. They could follow their own path. Learn. Grow. Thrive.
If we wanted to—if he wants to—Chase and I could be together.
But then Tanner’s heart plummeted. Could he actually stand up before pack leadership and declare that the reason weres lived as they did today was because they were all effectively cowering with their tails between their legs? Even if they accepted the truth and chose to embrace change—chose being the operative word—Tanner owed something to his pack, to his uncle.
Didn’t he?
They were so few, their economy strained by the demise of the timber industry in Wallowa County. How could Tanner abandon them? Didn’t he owe them loyalty for the way his uncle had cared for him since his parents’ death? Didn’t they deserve to step into the new order—whatever it looked like—with an alpha who was committed to their prosperity?
“Tanner.” Chase’s voice was tentative.
Tanner tore his gaze from the journal and met Chase’s eyes. His face was somber. “Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is something you can spring on the pack council right away.”
Despite the fact that Tanner had almost come to that conclusion himself, he bristled. “Why not?”
“Because it challenges long-held beliefs. Because it threatens the status quo, and you know what they say about teaching an old wolf new tricks.” He took Tanner’s hands. “But most of all because right now, the only authority is that journal.” Chase jerked his chin at the book, sitting so innocently next to Tanner’s nearly untouched plate. “That journal and you.”
Tanner’s eyes widened. “You mean—”
“I mean it would be easier for the pack council to eliminate any threat than to change
.” Chase snorted. “Think about it. You’re asking pack alphas to admit they’re wrong—that they’ve been wrong for two generations, plus suggesting the reason they’ve been wrong is what amounts to institutionalized cowardice.”
“Caution when you’re protecting your friends and family isn’t cowardice.”
“I agree. But alphas aren’t big on nuance. They’ll take it as a challenge to their dominance. How well do you think that will go over?”
“So what should we do?”
Chase took a deep breath. “First, we need to get that whole journal transcribed into digital format and store it securely in as many places as we can think of. Then we start disseminating it—and not to the pack leadership. Not at first. No, I think we start . . .” A smile grew on Chase’s face, taking on a distinctly wicked edge. “We start with the juniors. Our generation is the first one that didn’t experience the fear of mass extinction. We’re the ones who are questioning tradition. I say, let’s give ourselves some more ammunition.”
A laugh bubbled in Tanner’s chest until it spilled out. “Can you imagine,” he wheezed, “what Jordan would do with this information?”
Chase joined his laughter. “Other than tell everybody he meets, in exhaustive detail?”
“Oh my gods. I can’t even . . .” Tanner’s laughter died. “Look, Chase. I believe that suppressing information, suppressing our history, whether it’s good or bad, horrifying or uplifting, heartbreaking or joyful, diminishes us as a species. But do you think sharing this information will really make a difference in the way weres live today?”
“It ought to.” Chase’s expression turned grim. “I’d really like to know if this was intentional or accidental. And if it was accidental—a sort of inertia once the real threat had passed—then who knew and why didn’t they say anything?” He pointed to the journal. “That can’t be the only record. And there are weres who are old enough to have seen changes first hand.”
“Not many,” Tanner reminded him. “A lot of them were killed before annual pack Musterings were outlawed for safety reasons—when shifted travel became too dangerous.”
“There must be some. That can be the second prong of your attack—collect the oral histories from the elders in every pack. Not only in Oregon, but in Washington, Idaho, Montana, Minnesota, Maine. Hells, if there was a migration north, let’s talk to the Alaskan packs. The Canadian packs.” He chuckled. “This might explain why Gage’s pack is the only enclave of coastal wolves south of Vancouver.”
“When you say ‘your’—”
“I mean you, Tanner. You love history. You love learning. This project is uniquely suited to you.” Chase lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want to turn it over to someone else?”
“No!” Tanner grabbed the journal, clasping it against his chest with both hands. “But I’m not sure . . . Chase, what about my pack? Don’t I owe them something?”
“You owe them the kind of opportunities that will arise from the ideas in that journal. Don’t you think they deserve to step into this century too?”
“I suppose.” Tanner noted that Chase hadn’t mentioned anything about the two of them being together. He glanced at the sun splashing the mellow pine floorboards. “I should call my uncle now, before it gets any later.” When Chase’s brow knotted, Tanner sighed wearily. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the chat short. No mention of where I am and definitely no mention of the journal.” Uncle Patrick would be the first to deny that traditions were based on anything but alpha supremacy. “Trust me. I’ve had years of practice in how to be vague.” Lack of specificity was useful when you had to explain random bruises.
“If you’re sure?” When Tanner nodded, Chase rose. “Then I’ll get my phone.” He disappeared down the hall.
Tanner stared at his forgotten breakfast, sausages congealing on their platter, Chase’s beautiful skillet pancake collapsing in the middle like the fading promise of last night. He crumbled a slice of bacon, but couldn’t bring himself to eat.
Chase returned, frowning at the phone in his hand. “There’s not much reception, and the battery is almost gone, but we can give it a try.” He glanced up at Tanner. “Why don’t you let me make the call? I’ll pass you the phone when I’ve got him on the line. That way—”
“That way, if Finn answers instead, or Lou, the guy who was driving the car, I won’t give myself away.”
Chase smiled crookedly. “Sorry. But it only makes sense. I’m still not sure the call is a good idea anyway.”
“I’ll keep it short. I promise.”
“Okay, then.” Chase thumbed through his contacts, selected one, then put the phone to his ear. Someone not Uncle Patrick must have answered because Chase said, “Chase Denney calling for Patrick Lassiter. Yes, I’ll hold.” Chase smiled at Tanner, although it didn’t reach his eyes, his fingers tapping a soft tattoo on the Formica. “Hello, Mr. Lassiter. It’s Chase Denney. I have someone here who’d like to speak with you.”
Chase laid the phone on the counter and put it on speaker. The connection was horrible—some kind of interference that sounded like wind through frozen tree branches. Tanner leaned closer to the phone, in case the interference was on Uncle Patrick’s end as well.
“Hi, Uncle Patrick. It’s me. Tanner.”
“Tanner?” Uncle Patrick’s voice was tinged with astonishment. Yeah, this is the first time I’ve ever called him since I arrived at the Doghouse. “This is quite a surprise, my boy. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” Tanner’s voice broke on the last word. “Chase told me you were sending some guys to help me pack.”
“Yes. They’ll be on the road momentarily.”
“Well, here’s the thing.” Tanner took a deep breath. “Please don’t come and get me. Not now.”
“If you—” The connection faded on a burst of static.
“Uncle?”—crackle fizz—“Are you still there?”
“—right away.”
“Sorry, Uncle. The connection is really bad. What was that?”
“I said don’t wor—”
The phone beeped once and then the screen went dark. Chase cursed under his breath and picked it up, poking at a couple of buttons to no avail. “Sorry. No more juice. But at least he knows you’re all right.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure if he’s still sending the guys to the Doghouse or not.”
“Once Mal gets back, we can ask him to send word. Maybe the clout of the Queen’s former enforcer will carry enough weight.”
“I hope he gets here soon. I’d really like an update.”
Chase waggled his dead phone. “How? Unless he comes in person, or sends Hugh, there aren’t many communication options. I think I’d rather he discover the truth about the threat—”
“If there is one.”
Chase nodded in acquiescence. “Let’s say, the truth about the threat’s target, because golems don’t just burst out of the ground of their own free will. They don’t have free will. They’re magical constructs, and can be pretty nasty if the person casting the spell isn’t particularly scrupulous about collateral damage.”
“I know. But still—”
The door burst open and a tall dark man in an almost indecently well-cut suit strode in. He glared at Chase and Tanner from behind trendy rectangular glasses that glinted with a vision spell. “Who the devil are you two?”
Tanner snapped his mouth shut, and judging by the click of Chase’s teeth, his jaw had sagged at the intruder’s entrance as well. Chase jumped to his feet, shielding Tanner with his body. “Who are you?”
The man continued to glare at them. “I asked you first.”
“Yeah, but we were here first.”
“That’s exactly my point! What are you doing in my house?”
“Your house?” Chase blinked at the man, then shared a bewildered glance with Tanner. “But Ted . . . Oh. You must be Ted’s husband.” Chase held out his hand. “Chase Denney. And this is Tanner Araya.” He smiled, that patented Chase sm
ile that could pull any panicked junior out of a spontaneous shift spiral. “Mal Kendrick sent us here.”
The man’s glare faded into a sheepish smile and he shook Chase’s hand, then offered the same to Tanner. “I beg your pardon. Yes, I’m Ted’s husband, Quentin Bertrand-Harrington. I apologize for my less-than-hospitable welcome, but the last few days have been an utter nightmare. I was delayed and delayed and delayed, and I really wanted to be here for our first event.” Quentin ran his hands through his dark hair, then loosened his tie. “Since I spy uneaten food, and Ted isn’t shoveling it into his maw, I assume he’s not here?”
“No.” Tanner moved next to Chase, so they were standing shoulder to shoulder. “He said he was planning to stay in the innkeeper’s suite last night. To take care of any last details.”
Quentin chuckled. “To sample the hors d’oeuvres, more likely.” He grimaced. “That’s unfair of me. It’s rather an in-joke between Ted and me, and since he’s not here to participate, I shouldn’t give you the impression that he’s incapable of restraint. In fact, he’s done an amazing job with the resort.” He grinned. “But he is a grizzly shifter coming out of hibernation season, and the Unseelie caterers are really spectacularly good. The new Faerie leadership is diversifying their economy with a vengeance.” Quentin unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Do you mind if I abandon you long enough to change? Ted shouldn’t have to shoulder all the tasks himself, but I refuse stay in this suit one instant longer. Lucifer’s balls, werewolf arbitration is trying enough when two packs are involved, but three of them, all snarling over the same territory? It’s enough to make me sorry stocks and iron maidens have gone out of fashion.”
Tanner glanced at Chase. “Um, we’re weres.”
Quentin smacked his forehead. “Of course you are, because it couldn’t possibly be more awkward, now, could it? I should have noticed at once, except I’m so used to keeping my aura sight locked down at home. I’m a supe advocate, you understand, and this dispute arose at exactly the wrong time for my personal convenience.”
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