“Traitor. It’s about saving your ass.”
“Keeping the peace, saving my ass, it’s all the same thing.”
Dan directed the other two werewolves to grab my arms.
If had my strength back, if I had my pistol, if I had my vampire speed…but I had nothing.
CHAPTER 67
Calhoun’s goons dragged me outside. They wrenched my arms behind my back and secured my wrists with a length of steel cable. They shoved me into the backseat of one of Calhoun’s ubiquitous black Mercedes limousines and morphed back to human form. They didn’t care about my wet clothes staining the leather upholstery. Then we drove through Charleston to Latrall’s estate in Mount Pleasant. A cordon of police cars kept public traffic from getting off the main road for the estate. A second cordon of werewolves guarded the perimeter.
We slowed for a checkpoint staffed by two female weres carrying automatic rifles. Dan rolled his window down; they recognized him and waved us through.
A dozen cars were parked in front of the estate. The limo passed a garage, drove off the pavement, and rolled over the grass to the grounds in back. We continued behind the terrace and stopped beside the concrete helicopter pad. The three weres got out. Dan gave the order for one to stand guard.
I was left in the car, still weak, still in pain. It was too much of an effort to remain sitting up, so I tipped over to lie on my side across the backseat.
I struggled to work free of the cable restraints, but they remained tight. With ordinary vampire strength, I might’ve torn free, but at the moment, it felt good to simply lie on the upholstery and rest. The dull ache of the harpoon wound in my chest smothered the outside world. I dozed off.
Someone yanking my feet woke me.
Dan and his two werewolf goons, auras glowing, were at the open door of the limo. They had changed into white shirts and blue jeans. They yelled at me, but all I heard was an intense mechanical clatter.
Groggy and nauseous, I couldn’t stop them from pulling me from the car. A deafening thumping noise pounded the night air. Cool wind beat my face and rustled my clothes.
A werewolf gripped my head. Dan spread my right eyelid. I tried to squirm free, but these werewolves were too strong.
Dan brought his finger to my eye.
Overcome with terror, I fought as hard as I could. Threaten to disembowel, burn, behead me, just stay away from my eyes.
Dan pressed a contact over my eye. The contact was hard and made my eye itch. He started for the left eye. Now that I knew what to expect, I didn’t struggle as much. Still, I was creeped out. The contact lenses eliminated my supernatural vision and the world looked dull.
The S-76 helicopter sat on the concrete pad, the spinning rotor a silver disk, the strobe lights flashing.
The weres dragged me along, and I stumbled to find my balance. They pushed me to the open cargo door and tipped me onto the deck. I was shoved face-first against seats. A were tied a strap to my wrist restraints and lashed me to the floor.
More weres hustled to the helicopter. They climbed aboard, stepped around me, and shoved crates against me. There was a rush to secure the crates to the floor, yelling, getting into seats, more yelling. The doors were kept open and grass and dust swirled through the compartment.
After a slight pause, the helicopter rose to a hover. I expected glare from the landing lights but realized there was none. The pilot and crew were all werewolves and had excellent night vision.
The helicopter banked and I got a panoramic view of the stars but no clue of where we were headed. I remained still, a trussed animal, afraid but waiting for the chance to escape.
The helicopter rolled level and I recognized the Cooper River, the wharf, the fleet of tall ships, the warehouses, and the Avenal Bridge as we swung in a circle heading northwest.
Water sparkled with the light of the full moon.
The full moon.
I was out of time.
CHAPTER 68
The helicopter turned off its strobe lights and descended to treetop level. We were far from Charleston and skimmed low over the gloom of strange terrain. I hadn’t seen any ground lights for many minutes, which meant we were miles deep into the wilderness.
The nose pitched up and we turned to the left. The landing gear groaned as it extended. As we banked, I could see torches arranged in a large circle around a bonfire. Figures—of werewolves, I was certain—hurried across the circle and their shadows crisscrossed one another like the broken spokes of a wheel.
A circle.
Le Cercle de Sang et Crocs.
The Circle of Blood and Fangs. The gathering of werewolves to coronate Calhoun as their new territory alpha. The gathering of werewolves to pronounce judgment on me.
The helicopter slowed its descent, floated to a hover, then sank against the ground. The werewolves in the cabin threw off their seat belts and scrambled out. Dan and another werewolf unfastened the strap around me and grabbed my arms. They dragged me from the helicopter and dropped me to the ground. I lay on the grass, confused, dizzy, filled with fear.
The other werewolf yanked me to my knees. Dan squeezed my jaw—my reaction was to clench tight—but he was too strong and I was too weak. He shoved an iron bar sideways into my mouth and cinched the bar in place with a cord that he wound across the back of my head.
I tried chewing on the bit but gave up. No sense breaking a tooth. Saliva welled in my mouth and slobbered down my chin.
The roar of helicopters surrounded us. I was pelted with dust and grass from all sides. A CH-47 Chinook landed close, a huge machine that looked like a school bus with rotors on its front and rear. It wore dark green camouflage with the markings of the South Carolina National Guard. The rear cargo ramp lowered and dozens of werewolves dismounted at a run.
The CH-47 leaped upward and another big helicopter took its place in the field, a gray H-3 Sea King with markings of the Naval Reserve. Once it landed, werewolves hopped from the side door and scurried in a crouch from under the rotor disk.
No kidding, this Cercle was a big deal. A half-dozen helicopters circled above, all big military machines carrying werewolves. The territory weres must’ve infiltrated all the local bases.
The S-76 helicopter took off in a storm of dust and grass. Scores of werewolves hustled around me. The air was electric with excitement. Every werewolf—male, female—seemed to be wearing a version of the same uniform: a white shirt over jeans. They’d snarl and flex their arms. The shirt would tear along the seams and show off hairy bulges of muscle.
The full moon beamed upon us, a perfect circle of white light.
Werewolves jostled one another like football players before a game. They assembled behind tall wooden staffs displaying cloth standards emblazoned with heraldic emblems and shields.
Dan and his assistant shoved me through the crowds in the direction of the circle of torches. The werewolves parted with growls and bared fangs.
Several raked me with their claws. I didn’t give these shaggy mutts the satisfaction of seeing me wince. By the time we reached the perimeter of torches, my clothes were in shreds and my body covered in bloody scratches.
Inside the circle, the torchlights and bonfire gave everything an orange tint. A column of black smoke twisted upward from the bonfire and smudged across the full moon. The circle was a hundred meters in diameter and sloped upward from me. Formations of werewolves standing shoulder to shoulder packed the circumference.
Helicopters roared overhead with the frenzy of an air assault.
I was outnumbered by a thousand lycanthropes. Werewolf eyes, red as hot rivets, surrounded me. Terror prickled my skin. I worked my mouth to see if I could move the bit enough to chew on the restraining cord. Didn’t work. Minute by minute I slipped deeper into desperation and hopelessness.
King Gullah’s double cross had put me here. After I’d killed Bourbon and Paxton, I could’ve left Charleston and wiped my hands clean of these werewolves. But Gullah had turned me over to Calhoun. Gullah
’s betrayal had stung me to the core.
Werewolves carried logs as thick as telephone poles and tossed them into the bonfire. Each log landed with a puff of sparks that was sucked into the smoke.
The drumming of helicopters grew faint.
Dan and the other were led me around the fire to the upward slope of the circle. We faced a makeshift platform made of logs. Banners decorated with stylized wolf heads and paw prints hung from the front of the platform. The bonfire, the logs, the torches, and the banners gave the gathering the ambience of a summer camp with the theme of a fascist Lord of the Flies.
Seven folding chairs were on the platform. Six werewolves—two female, four male—occupied the chairs, leaving the middle one empty. Behind each chair stood werewolves holding standards. The center standard was identical to the one I’d seen before at Latrall’s estate. A crescent moon rising above a howling wolf, superimposed over a palm tree. The emblem of the Low-country Territory.
I didn’t recognize any of the werewolves except for Sean Moultier, Bourbon’s surviving lieutenant, who sat to the immediate right of the middle chair.
At the end of the platform, a werewolf sat cross-legged and tapped at a laptop.
Where was Calhoun? Where was Angela?
I was pushed to my knees. The werewolves on the platform kept their eyes on the circle and ignored me.
A female werewolf appeared from behind the others on the platform. The murmurs of the crowd gave way to howls. Long excited howls. Howls from packs and packs of werewolves. Howls that chilled the air and made my kundalini noir turn into an icicle.
The female werewolf walked to the front edge of the platform. She carried a simple bowl in one paw and a necklace of fangs in the other. She was either a priestess of some kind or the emcee. She raised both paws. The howls faded to a reverential silence, disturbed only by the crackling of the bonfire and the torches.
She drew a breath, paused, and shouted, “Welcome, honored sisters and brothers.” Her voice echoed in the darkness. This werewolf had lungs.
She bowed to the weres on the platform. “Honored council.”
They nodded.
She faced the circle and drew another deep breath. “Welcome to Le Cercle de Sang”—she upturned the bowl and poured blood over the edge of the platform—“et Crocs.” She shook the necklace.
The circle erupted in a fury of howls.
The werewolf at the laptop tapped furiously at the keyboard. Probably the secretary, taking minutes.
The emcee raised the bowl and fangs. The alphas on the platform stood. The howls softened. She shouted, “Le Cercle summons Randolph Calhoun.”
Werewolves sang out, “Calhoun. Calhooon. Cal-hoooon.”
The circle separated at the most downward slope. Calhoun marched through the gap. He was in full werewolf form, the first time I’d seen him like this. His snout was distended and fangs showed beneath his lip, but I still recognized him. His furry ears were up. Instead of a suit, he wore a simple white shirt over jeans like everyone else. His muscles bulged in his clothes. Tufts of hair sprouted through the torn seams of his shirt. The claws of his prosthetic clenched and unclenched.
He proceeded to the edge of the bonfire and stopped. Two werewolves used long iron rakes to pull the burning logs apart and clear a path through the hot coals. Calhoun kept his gaze on the emcee.
The packs of werewolves began to chant. “Huzzah. Huzzah. Huzzah.”
The bed of coals before Calhoun glowed and pulsed with the menace of a demonic living thing, one made of freshly spewed lava. He set one furry hind paw in the coals.
He was going to walk through the fire. My kundalini noir shriveled until it twisted against my sphincter. I wanted no part of this ceremony.
Calhoun lifted his other hind paw and placed it in the hot coals.
“Huzzah. Huzzah. Huzzah.”
I watched, transfixed, astounded by the pair he must have between his hairy legs. He walked resolutely across the coals. A corona of sparks swirled around his head.
When he reached the other end of the fire, the chanting became a chorus of wild howls.
Two werewolves placed steps at the front of the platform, center stage. Calhoun kept his stride. Smoke wafted from his feet and trouser cuffs. He climbed the steps and halted before the emcee, his back toward me and the audience. The emcee hesitated and waited for the circle to become quiet.
The emcee shouted, “Randolph Calhoun, are you prepared to assume your duties as alpha of the Lowcountry Territory?”
I assumed that walking through the bonfire had answered that question.
He replied with a confident “I am.”
She offered him the bowl of blood. “Are you prepared to uphold the traditions of were family and administer Lycanthrope Law?”
He took the bowl in his good paw. “I am.”
She offered him the necklace of fangs. “Are you prepared to guard the honor of your clans and packs?”
He raised his prosthetic arm. “I am.”
She draped the necklace over his steel claws. Placing a paw on his shoulder, she turned him around. “Then, Randolph Calhoun, by the authority of Lycanthrope Law, I designate you alpha of the Lowcountry Territory.”
Wolves howled, the noise so loud it was as if the skies had split apart and thunder from the next thousand years crashed at once.
The werewolf holding the standard of the Lowcountry Territory came forward. He stood behind Calhoun, who extended his arms, Sang in one paw, Crocs in the prosthesis.
With my contacts in place, I couldn’t read auras, but if I could, I’d bet Calhoun’s blazed in triumph and hubris. He had control over Latrall’s estate. Bourbon, his only rival, was dead. Calhoun had the entire territory in his feral grip.
Calhoun handed the bowl and necklace back to the emcee. He gestured with his paw and the alphas on the stage took their seats. The emcee stepped to the side.
Quiet again settled over the circle.
The werewolf secretary kept up his tap-tap-tapping.
Calhoun stood rigid and proud at the front of the platform. “Fellow werewolves, I am humbled by this honor. I pledge to protect you all.” He turned slowly to the left and right to acknowledge the entire circle.
“Together, we have averted a great tragedy. There were some among us who sold pack loyalty for selfish gain, family ties for perfidy, in a loathsome act of sedition. We were on the brink of war, a werewolf war, a war that threatened not only our clans and packs and families, but the Great Secret as well.”
Hundreds of weres hissed and booed.
Calhoun raised his prosthesis and it shone in the light of the bonfire like a gladiator’s weapon.
“Thanks to all of you, we have crushed the enemies of supernatural peace and were prosperity. We have brought the traitors to justice.”
The far end of the circle opened again. A line of twenty werewolves marched through. Each carried a pole, but instead of a standard, every pole was topped with a were’s head.
A procession of decapitated victims. I recognized two heads—those of Jerry Dunlap and Eric Bourbon. The rest must have been accomplices.
The beat of my kundalini noir stopped, paralyzed by yet another terror in this maelstrom of terrors. What had happened to the bodies? Was there a pole for my head?
The line of werewolves circled the bonfire, stopped, and angled the poles over the flames.
Calhoun leveled his prosthesis at the fire. “These traitors murdered our beloved Inga Latrall. Let us banish these criminals and no longer pollute our thoughts with their memory.”
One by one, the werewolves tossed their poles into the fire. The circle of werewolves remained quiet, as if awed by this epic drama of werewolf justice.
I watched Bourbon’s head lodge in a pile of burning logs. His hair disappeared in a quick flame and gush of smoke. His skull had settled facedown in the coals. After a moment I couldn’t tell his head apart from anything else incinerating in the bonfire.
Calhoun took his pl
ace in the middle seat. He kept his face placid, yet—it might have been a trick of the shimmering light—I thought I saw a smile twist along his snout. What better revenge than to ruin your enemy and toss his head into the fire?
I had circles spinning and overlapping in my mind. This ceremony of Le Cercle. The circle of werewolves. The circle of the full moon. The circle of how I’ve known Eric Bourbon. In the beginning, he had showed me a decapitated were’s head. In the end, it was his decapitated head that I saw. I hoped this circle broke before it was my turn.
“Before we continue our celebration,” the emcee shouted, “we have other business to attend to.”
Dan pulled me to my feet. Hundreds of werewolves turned their snouts in my direction. The hundreds of werewolves in the circle.
CHAPTER 69
The werewolf emcee glared into the crowd from her spot on the edge of the platform. “Tonight, we must administer more justice.”
The word justice brought a pressure that squeezed my head like a pair of torturer’s tongs. The pressure relented when werewolves dragged a woman through the circle toward the bonfire. It wasn’t yet my turn to suffer this macabre justice.
Where was Angela? Was she working a scheme to save me?
One werewolf yanked the woman’s hair and pulled her head back in order for Calhoun, the emcee, and the council to identify her. She wore a white chef’s coat, now grimy and frayed.
She was the blonde who had tried to assassinate me at the costume ball. Calhoun had said he would take care of her. What were they going to do? Tear her to pieces? Feed her to the mob? This was not justice—it was barbaric theater.
I chewed at the bit. I flexed my arms to see if the cable around my wrists had slackened. For all my huffing and straining, I remained as tightly bound as before.
The emcee beckoned and the werewolves brought the prisoner close. Her face was as white as her coat. Her eyes blinked in an unrelenting spasm of fear.
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