Rebellious Hood

by Kendrai Meeks

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Sign up for Kendrai Meeks's Mailing List

  Also By Kendrai Meeks

  PROLOGUE

  Brünhild

  “But it’s all in German!”

  With that, I knew my daughter and nephew were up to no good. I could practically picture her behind the closed study door, my seven-year-old’s chestnut curls flopping around as her head tilted to the side the way it did whenever she was puzzled. Like a confused pup. I shuddered and banished the thought with haste. The last thing I wanted was to credit any lupine tendencies to my own child. Pietro didn’t have any such quirks, nor had his mother, who was also an asenaic. What made my daughter so different?

  I knew the answer to that question, however. I did.

  Inside my study, the children continued their banter.

  “Of course, it is!” Markus said. “We’re in Germany. Did you think it would be in Farsi?”

  “What’s Farsi?”

  “It’s another language,” my nephew said.

  Only two years older than my Gerwalta, my cousin’s first born thought he knew everything. For certain, he knew far more than he should. Markus had started reading at four and had yet to stop. The child was insatiable and his parents had quickly discovered that great care must be taken when leaving digestible materials around the house.

  Gerwalta huffed. “Well, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

  “Where do they speak Parsley?”

  “Farsi, not parsley. And I don’t know. In Farsistan?”

  A pause, followed by a clunk as the pair took another book down from shelves I myself hadn’t perused since being elected. The study had been my mother’s when she, too, was Grand Matron, but books and administration had never been my wheelhouse. Execution was. I leaned in, just as curious as the children about what they may find.

  “Look!” Markus said. “This one has illustrations.”

  “What are iller stations?” Gerwalta asked.

  “No, not iller stations, illustrations. Pictures that go along with the writing. Smells weird though. Old. And... whoa! Geri, look! Your name is in this book!”

  The door flew open without another moment’s hesitation.

  Filling the door, I invoked all the outrage I knew a mother should feel at catching children in the act of doing something forbidden. Planting balled fists on my hips, I glared them into guilt, and in its shadow, saw the two children diverge. Markus bristled, as if the only misdeed was being caught in the act. Gerwalta withered, her eyes cast to the floor as she shrunk back into herself.

  Like a shamed dog.

  The boy started to construct his rationalization, sitting in plain view with the ancient leather-bound book open on his lap. “We were just looking, Aunt Brunnie. You said yourself that we should read more about hood stuff.”

  “That is true, but that does not mean you should be in my study without permission.” I turned to where my daughter cowered in the corner. “Come out, sweetheart. It’s okay; I should have told you to ask first. This isn’t like at home. Now that I’m Grand Matron, you’ll just have to get used to me having things you cannot see. It’s not because I’m trying to keep anything from you.” Liar. “It’s just because I owe it to the hoods and wolves under my command to respect their privacy. Now,” I turned back to Markus, “what is it you’ve found?”

  His pokey little finger landed on a bit of highly-embellished script. “Isn’t that Geri’s name?”

  I bent over and took up the tome, surprised by its lightness, and began to page through the text. “Indeed, it is.”

  “Why does one of Grandma Sabine’s old books have Geri’s name?”

  My eyes fell instinctively on my daughter, whose eyes shone bright with intrigue, even if she refused to ask the question herself.

  The next page’s illustration was of a lupine, his dual nature shown by having the head of a wolf and the body of a man, and a red hood beside him with a baby in her arms. “It’s a testimonial of our ancestor, Helga the Restorer, about Die Verräterin. You both know this story.”

  All hood children were told a simplified version of the infamous Little Red Riding Hood. The real story, not the fairy tale. A werewolf and a hood had fallen in love and wed, despite her mother, the Grand Matron, forbidding their union. They had a child, which angered the Matron so much, she ordered all three executed. The wolf ate his bride’s mother in defense. Helga the Restorer carried out the subscribed punishment in lieu of her mother, running them through with a silver spit and roasting them over a fire just outside the outer bailey walls.

  “Die Verräterin?” Gerwalta stepped forward at last. “The one I’m named after?”

  “You’re not named after her,” I insisted, stroking my daughter’s cheek as I balanced the book on the other arm. “You just have the same name.”

  “But everyone says I am,” the girl pouted.

  “You’re not. When they tell you that, just say what I told Grandmother Sabine: that your name in Old German means ‘woman with spear.’ It’s a proud warrior’s name, one which was common in our bloodline for centuries. It is time that it is so again.”

  It was a partial truth, but the child was too young to know the rest.

  I pulled my hand back, flipping pages, finding ones less yellowed by age. They’d been added later, obviously, but why? After the details of the Betrayer’s misdeeds and punishment, what more was there to chronicle? A great deal, it seemed, and it should have been no surprise. After all, my own mother had known the truth, that the babe born to Gerwalta Faust and her alpha mate Andreas Baron had not, in fact, been executed. That truth, concealed at the time with the aid of the powerful Dracule paterfamilias Igor Kharmarov, had been reintroduced to my mother shortly after she became Grand Matron. These pages bearing her penmanship documented the recovery of the lost bloodline, tracing the heritage back through the centuries.

  The final entry tore at my insides.

  On my orders, Brünhild visited Igor K.’s blooded-born, Inga R. She sampled young Gerwalta, confirming my worst fear. The vampire advises the child be terminated before discovery, a heinous act neither Brünhild nor myself are willing to entertain. It cannot be known for certain what powers my granddaughter’s blood will hold after she takes her fire, or even if she will survive such an ordeal. Her choice of mate is also highly likely to influence her nature, for such is the way of wolves. Brünhild has been advised that Gerwalta should be arranged to wed one within her own house, preferably someone unable to give her children, if one can be identified, so as to contain further iterations of her condition. To deny the child an opportunity for a full life weighs on me heavily, but the alternative is far too dangerous for us all. In the end, I blame myself for not acting sooner, and for my own contributions to the whole matter. The missteps of the House of Red, past and present, have resulted in a child that could empower our enemies and w
eaken our alliances. I will counsel Brünhild to do what’s required so that our truths are never discovered. I pray this tainted blood dies away. There can be no defeat of the Ravens if ever they become aware of the child who never should have been.

  The plan fell into place without thought. “Children, go find the castellan and tell her I wish to have an inventory of everyone who had access to this room during Grandmother Sabine’s tenure.”

  The young hoods looked at each other, quixotic.

  “What’s tenor?” the girl asked.

  For once, her know-it-all cousin had no answer.

  I placed the offending text on my desk and pushed the children toward the door. “It means during the time she occupied the office of the Grand Matron.”

  “Oh.” Markus turned back over his shoulder. “But she was Grand Matron FOREVER. Like, before you were even born.”

  I nodded. “I know, and it will take Rebecca a while to put that list together, but I must have it. You’re not to come back until it’s ready, okay? In the meantime, practice your swordplay.”

  Markus let out a rambunctious laugh. “Swordplay.”

  Gerwalta paused, turning sharply. “Did we do something wrong, mommy?”

  “Mutter, not mom.” The ache in my heart brought a tear to my eye. “No, my dear, of course not. I just have work, is all. Now, go. I’ll see you later for supper.”

  They scampered down the stairs then, the echo of their descent and laughter from their play growing softer with each step. I waited until even my sensitive ears could hear no more. Turning back to the study, I closed the door, locked it, checked the lock again. The book felt heavier when I picked it up the second time, weighed down by secrets. A few unspent logs still rested in the fireplace rack, perhaps where my mother had placed them before her death two months ago. Good, that meant they’d light fast and burn hot. As soon as I had the stack arranged, I placed the leather-bound text atop, held out my right hand, and brought forth a silver orb.

  I burned our past under the light of a harvest moon, hoping that the embers did not carry forward in time to set us all ablaze.

  ONE

  Markus

  Triberg had never been a prominent town in history, but that didn’t stop the tourists. I know, because one of the summers of our training spent in residence focused on local history, both ours and the hueys’. The kitsch-seekers started descending in droves in the ‘50s, right around the time the haze of second great huey war was settling down. Some came here because, frankly, it’s freaking gorgeous. The mountains peaking up on the edge of town, the fall colors, the hot Berliners and Viennese college students flooding into the region do some “male bonding...”

  The Black Forest may have once been known for its isolation and, well, blackness, given it used to be so damned dense you couldn’t see five feet into it, but nowadays, it was all about cuckoo clocks, alcohol-soaked cherries on a chocolate cakes, and thermal pools. Is it any wonder that I loved trips to Triberg when I was a young man looking for other young men? Tourists are so easy to pick up, especially in a roman bath after a long hike through the countryside.

  But what brings people to Triberg specifically are those waterfalls. I mean, I get waterfalls. Niagara is, like, one of the most impressive things God did with the earth. Even the Tahquamenon Falls by Aunt Brunnie’s compound are crazy awesome. Triberg’s are the biggest in Germany, and just a short hike from the parking lots at the base. You can hear them from every part of town, just like you can see the top of the cliff that rises above the valley from there, too. Believe me, if the House of Red had known when they built their homestead centuries ago that their beloved castle would be one of the most Instagrammed buildings in the whole of Badem-Württemberg, they would have avoided those falls like the plague.

  Interestingly enough, avoiding the plague was one the selling points for building here, so far from any sizable population center. See, history lessons do come in handy.

  Luckily, Schloss Wolfsretter (note: a fancy German frankenword meaning “wolf watcher,” like we’re some kind of damned lupine peeping tom) developed a bit of a reputation. The tourist guides even tell unsuspecting saps to be smart. “Former residence of a family made wealthy through ownership of the local silver mines, it is now a corporate retreat for a private religious order, and protects its borders aggressively. Take pictures from afar, but do not attempt to visit. You can find licensed postcards at the village gift shops.”

  But, you know, tourists... Some of them are dumb. A few still crawl up that mountain each year, either boldly driving up the paved road in their airport-issued Beemers, or attempting to hike it in through the woods. Every year, they’re escorted back down at the end of a sword or axe. Not that they remember that particular fact afterward. My grandmother, Grand Matron Sabine Kline, wised up and hired a resident vampire. He does the hoopy-loopy thing and clears up huey memories. As a race, we may be old-fashioned, but we’re not completely stupid.

  I was six the first time my parents forced me to attend “Camp Wannawhackawolf.” Geri was only four, but as the direct descendant of the leadership, her school breaks were sacrificed on the altar of hood bureaucracy since she was a baby. I can’t really remember much about that summer except that it was the first time I’d seen a vampire, and they were cool as hell. Back then, the undead-in-residence was an old Welsh rabbit named Regina Flanders. She showed me how she could turn to smoke and made the one huey who lived in Schloss Wolfsretter think her underwear was a dinner napkin. Aunt Brunnie was not impressed, but I was. Though she wasn’t officially supposed to encourage my curiosity about her kind, Regina sent me emails a few times a year with links to a few places to pick up insight. Which was, like, uber cool of her. Then, when I was thirteen, I showed up for summer training to be informed that Regina had “moved on to another opportunity.”

  Lucky her, I thought, because by that time, the “summer camp from hell,” as we’d described it to our huey friends back home, had ceased to be anything Geri and I looked forward to. I mean, how many summer camps required its attendees to drill martial arts forms from four continents, to learn how to land an arrow in the heart of a squirrel from two hundred meters out, or to study semi-magical chants in half a dozen antique languages?

  And did we ever weave a lanyard?

  Not. One. FREAKING. Time.

  Anyways, Triberg...

  One big advantage of Hood HQ being a short drive from a big tourist trap was that you could drive around in cars worthy of a mafia flick and locals would just think you were an uptight banker from Frankfurt. The reason security freaks loved big, black SUVs so much wasn’t hard to understand. They were sleek, powerful, roomy, but mostly, their shaded windows and boxy confines leant a certain amount of secrecy to the riders. Or so the theory went. As I pulled the Mercedes SUV to a halt outside the only vehicular entry gate to the compound, the last thing I was, was covert. Hard to stay secret when the only road traversable by a car wound two thousand feet up a mountain in plain view of the village in the valley below, the headlights a moving marker of my position in the night.

  I rolled down the window. “Two fries, six cheeseburgers, and a kiddie meal please – extra ketchup."

  A click preceded the tinny voice speaking perfect German that came from the box. “Name, clan, and sanjak, please.”

  Whoever was on duty either had no sense of humor or didn’t speak English. Or both. I sighed, piecemealing together the broken language I’d been taught in my youth. “Markus Kline, House of Red, American Midwest under Brünhild Kline.”

  “Thank you, please hold.” The speaker clicked as the castellan’s office searched their schedules. Schedules I wouldn’t be on, because screw them, I shouldn’t need an official invite to enter my clan’s ancestral home.

  Another click. “Mr. Kline, we don’t see authorization for your visit.”

  “Jesus fricking Christ.”

  “He’s not on the schedule, either.”

  Inga rolled her eyes and crawled over my
lap to get closer to the speaker. Her extended finger wagged at the box like it was a disobedient puppy. “I don’t know who you are, but this is Inga Rosethorn, and if you don’t open this gate and let us in right now, I will personally drain you with my own two teeth.”

  In German, she sounded even more threatening. And hot.

  What? I’m gay, not dead.

  The nerves in the voice of the on-duty guard were unmistakable. “Hold please.” Click.

  I fixed Inga with my best side-eye.

  The vampire turned a blank expression to me, five inches from my face. “What?”

  “Well, first...” I gently pushed her back to her seat. She gave in. Of course, she did. There was no way a hood, even one with my brawn, could force a vampire to do anything. Not without a sharp sword or wooden stake, anyway.

  “And, second,” I continued once she was back in the passenger side. “Remember on the drive up when I said, ‘don’t say anything. Just let me handle it because you’re going to go vamp psycho and piss them off?’ That’s the kind of vamp psycho I was talking about.”

  Inga crossed her arms. “What do I care about pissing off hoods?”

  “Seeing as we’re coming here begging for their help, I think the answer to that should be, ‘a hella lot.’ Unless, of course, you’re thinking of killing them all.”

  “A hostile takeover of the compound?” She balanced her chin on a beautifully manicured finger. “How many do you think are inside?”

  I wasn’t sure if I should tell her because, one, duh, who gave up that kind of information to an outsider? And two, I was scared the number wouldn’t dissuade her, and if that was true, yikes.

  The speaker clicked again. “Matron Chin has authorized your visit. The gates will open momentarily.”

  I closed my eyes and grumbled a curse under my breath. I hadn’t known Inga long, but it only took a few minutes in the company of the infamous ‘Daughter of Dracula’ to discover her arrogance. The simple victory would only fuel that fire of conceit.

  “Psycho vampire, you were saying?”