Rise of the Alphas

by Alexis Davie

  “Right. Well, they’ve all seen you, at least. Put those drinks on your tab, will I?” Garrick’s lips curled into something like a smile. Harry looked at him, expressionless. “Where are you going that isn’t here?” he asked. “Got a new human wrapped around your little finger?”

  Garrick sighed, finished his drink, and stood up. “I’ve been bored of humans for a while. You know that very well.”

  Harry shrugged. “Thought you might have got some of your mojo back.”

  “Council meeting,” Garrick said. He pulled on an overcoat and picked up an umbrella. “Your bloody prince insists on them being after dark. Wish me luck, it’ll be all spreadsheets and falling levels of inter-species engagement. I’ll be doing my best not to fall asleep.”

  “Isn’t it early for…”

  But Garrick was heading towards the door, and Harry’s voice was fading into the general hum of the pub.

  Garrick pulled up his collar against the predictable drizzle and turned left. This was not the way to the train and then to the council meeting in Bethnal Green. It was the way home, to his makeshift garage. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was long enough for Garrick to get that confusing London kind of wet to the bone where the rain was never heavy and your outer layers weren’t too disgusting, but somehow, you were shivering and your skin was moist and clammy.

  He turned corners, unthinking, and dodged several construction sites. Eventually, he was at a warehouse. All the windows were new, wooden, beautiful, but Garrick had only renovated the first floor. For himself. The rest was empty. He didn’t need it, and he didn’t need the extra income. One day it would have a purpose, maybe. Garrick’s house was pretty much entirely open plan. There was stuff everywhere, dropped blankets, dirty plates, empty bottles. But Garrick wasn’t here for long, or to clean up, or to care. He was just grabbing his keys.

  Downstairs, where the lorries used to drop off and pick up, was where Garrick parked his cars. And his bike. He walked over to the old girl, shedding his overcoat as he went. He wasn’t insane. Didn’t need a brown flowing train getting caught in a wheel.

  Garrick gave the bike a pat ‘hello,’ though he rode her like this once a week at least. Then he swung a leg over her and pressed a button on the automatic garage door that was one of his biggest, bougiest indulgences.

  The tires were kicking up water behind him in a long strip. He revved the engine and sped up, his suit trousers getting ever wetter, ever more stuck to his slim legs. He loved this, loved allowing himself this freedom, this rush, these moments of real intense joy and fear. He loved this bike.

  But he’d felt a little like it earlier… the young witch. He’d felt a little fire between them. Maybe he just needed someone to tell him he was wrong, to tell him he was stuck in the past, or to mock him. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes from her.

  Garrick sped up. There was very little traffic on the side streets, and when he reached an A-road, it was little better. He did this a lot, usually later at night, usually not going anywhere. But tonight, he wanted more than ever not to think. He sped past residential properties and a couple of parks, a primary school, new blocks of flats, and then he was at the slip road to the motorway, and barely thinking (trying not to, maybe), he tugged the bike sideways and took the exit so hard and fast his knees almost scraped the tarmac.

  He didn’t indicate as he merged into the ends of the rush hour traffic, didn’t even glance behind him. He was barely risking injury as he slipped sinuously between lanes. Well, almost. He’d had a few drinks.

  It was late enough that the going-home traffic was becoming the lorries and the tired, long-distance drivers of the evening. They were slower, so it should be safer, but Garrick wove between them at twice their speed. He tried to get close enough to feel the smallest drops of water bouncing from the lorry’s tarp, but he’d underestimated how drunk he was. The bike wobbled beneath him, his knees going sideways almost into the…

  There wasn’t a lorry. He tried to look behind him, but that made him swerve into the next lane. He must have overtaken it. He must not have been paying attention. The rain was getting in his eyes, and the streetlights were blurry, passing fast on either side. Garrick was shaking a little, but he made to regain his previous speed anyway. He wasn’t that drunk. And what did it matter? It would be a real freak accident that beheaded him. He dipped in in front of a Volvo, which beeped its horn loudly. Again, Garrick increased his speed and looked around to see who he’d pissed off. He could, he supposed, kill one of them, getting his kicks like this. Or trying to, he didn’t even—

  The Volvo was gone, too. Garrick turned his attention back to the road quickly. The Volvo must have changed lanes. Then it was Garrick’s exit, coming up on him out of nowhere. Without even looking behind him, he swerved across lanes, clicking his blinker on too late. He heard breaks screech, the horn of a lorry, and braced for impact, but it didn’t come. He sailed onto the ramp way too fast, his own breaks screeching in the rain, the bike almost sliding sideways.

  The rest of the drive was, if not sedate, steady. He was a little wobbly but not terribly so. The cool air against his cheeks was sure to help.

  The building that housed the council headquarters was a local history museum now. Another thing that always made Garrick sigh. Local history, his arse. He knew more about the local history than anyone who worked there. the whole council did. But they just had the basement rooms now, a warren of them, more than the humans knew. They had often used subterranean London in times of crisis, when the immortals had warred against one another, of the couple of periods when people had got wind of them and then got… weird. But now they were used for some transport, and for meeting like these, storage of some particularly intense magical items, that kind of thing. Anyway, Garrick had a key. A big, ostentatious gold key with a lopped and ornate end. He walked around to the side door and inserted his key, began to turn it, but the wooden, pitched door swung open before he could, and he almost fell in before he wriggled the key out.

  “What the hell?” Garrick was dragged inside by a cold, white hand, and the door was slammed behind him. “Turn a damn light on, Oleg!”

  The vampire snapped his fingers.

  “You will not be giving the orders today,” Oleg said, though dim lights had just begun to glow. Garrick rubbed his neck, where he’d practically got whiplash on his way in.

  “Clearly,” he said, “but can we get down to the chamber before I get whatever bollocksing this is? I don’t want it once from you and then again from everyone else.”

  Oleg nodded, turning silently. He was so damn dramatic all the time and insisted on that cape. Garrick fingered the lapel of his jacket again.

  “You’re drunk,” the vampire said, in that affected drawl of his, as he began walking down the stairs.

  Garrick followed. “I’m not.”

  “Always drunk,” Oleg countered, “so I suppose maybe you don’t notice. I wouldn’t know…”

  “Yeah, yeah, Oleg, you’re a purist, blood only and the best of that. You’ve mentioned it a few times over the last thousand years, mate.”

  The pair reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the labyrinth of corridors. Soon, another peaked wooden door. Oleg stood in front of it, about to give, Garrick was sure, a deep and echoing knock. Garrick leaned over the vampire’s shoulder and pushed the door open. The four faces at the table, all stony, turned.

  “Nice of you to join us,” said Arielle, a tall witch at the other side of the large round table, her hair piled on her head, her fingernails long and red where her hands rested. Garrick pushed past Oleg, who let out something amusingly like a harrumph and staggered sideways in a way that was clearly exaggerated.

  Garrick sauntered, long-legged, over to his usual seat, scraping it against the stone-flagged floor as he pulled it out. “Let’s get this show on the road then, eh, kids?”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “Don’t think so.” Eli, head of the central wolf pack, leaned back in
his chair. His arms were crossed.

  “Bone to pick?” Garrick couldn’t help a small smile. Little werewolf joke there. He looked around the table. Not a single little grin. “Tough crowd,” he muttered.

  “For goodness’ sake, Garrick! You’re a child! What the hell were you playing at tonight?” Arthur, the warlock emissary, looked genuinely livid.

  Garrick shrugged. “I was ten minutes late to a monthly council meeting…”

  “Not that!” Arielle almost stood up, then landed back in her chair. “Who helped you? On the M25?”

  “I do not know what you’re talking about, love.” He knew that would irritate Arielle, but she didn’t let it show. Not even a twitch.

  “Come on, Garrick, I know it was a witch, I can tell. And it was none of mine. So who was it? Got a new girlfriend?”

  Garrick raised his eyebrows. “Jealous?”

  “Enough!” Oleg attempted to boom.

  “Yes,” Arthur agreed. His fingers were steepled. “Garrick, stop messing about. And stop bloody flirting, too. If you’ve not done it in the fifteen hundred years we’ve been meeting here, I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

  Garrick was about to open his mouth, but Arielle shot him a hell of a look. Fair enough. She was an intimidating woman.

  “You could easily have revealed us tonight, Garrick,” Arthur went on. “Vehicles disappearing from the motorway during rush hour. We can thank our lucky stars for humans texting and driving, frankly.”

  Garrick tried not to look surprised. Well, he supposed that made sense. But who…?

  “Considering that we’re here to talk about our imminent fucking discovery, Garrick, and you’re supposed to be in charge…”

  “Supposed to?” Garrick leaned forward. “What’s supposed meant to mean there?” His voice came out a deep growl, and he felt his eyes flash with cold fire.

  “Come on, you heard me. You know how your grandad got the top spot…”

  Garrick bashed a hand on the table and stood, almost knocking his chair over.

  “Woah!” Arthur held a hand up. “Enough machismo! Everyone sit down. Garrick, you made a damn mess. You’re lucky no one seems to have noticed. And you need to get your crap together. We have a big problem down in the south; a group of warlocks who don’t give a damn about revealing themselves. We’re doing damage control, and we need you to step up.”

  “Right.” Garrick sat down. “How?”

  “Honestly, you’re the boss. It’s up to you. But they’ve been flying around Sutton! FLYING! And if we don’t get them under control, we think they might be coming for the council.”

  Garrick sighed. “We can’t just… get rid of them?”

  Arielle rolled her eyes. “Typical man—straight to violence. The council exists to avoid that, Garrick. You know that. Your grandfather—”

  “Yeah, right, no more red in tooth and claw…”

  Oleg opened a big black bag, slipped some papers over the table.

  “This is the information,” he said. “I know you do not like the screens.” Oleg nodded at Garrick. He approved of this traditional approach.

  “One week,” Arthur said, “and if you don’t come up with something, we will. And we might need to… reshuffle things.”

  Garrick grabbed the papers, stood. “Is that a threat?”

  Arthur shrugged. Arielle smiled. “Remember to call off your witch, whoever she is. And yeah, I think it’s a threat. Maybe try being sober next time, too?”

  Oleg looked at Arthur. “The bike?”

  “Yeah, we have it. Garrick, you’re getting the tube home. Unless you can find somewhere very secure to shift.”

  At full height, Garrick towered over the others, even when they were all stood. He let his eyes sweep around the table, knowing his eyes were doing that thing again, shining with the dragon inside him, and that his jaw was hard-set and his cheekbones sharp. He didn’t say anything. He turned and walked out the door, through the maze of corridors, to the drizzly night where his bike wasn’t.

  Garrick headed for an empty car park nearby. No way was he taking the tube.

  On his walk, the gears were turning. A witch… a witch…

  But why would the little witch have been paying any attention to his journey? How would she even know?

  4

  Brinley

  She had found the notice on a corkboard by the loos.

  Bedsits for those suitable. Good prices. Witch-run.

  And an address, a road she was sure she had walked along earlier. She was going to go and ask, wondering if she was ‘suitable.’ She looked down at herself. She didn’t look unsuitable. Or she didn’t think so, anyway. She took the notice.

  The tall, intriguing man, Garrick… He had left a little while ago. The name was familiar. He was some kind of big wig, she was sure…And then as she was leaving the bar, the barman, Harry, had whistled at her. She went over slowly, a little suspicious, and leaned against the bar.

  “Little witch,” Harry hissed at her, his breath dirty with beer and cigarettes.

  “Brinley,” she said, with the hardest edges she could muster. “It’s Brinley.”

  “Whatever,” Harry said, “it doesn’t matter. You’re not settling round here. You pissed off our dragon king.”

  Ah. That was where she’d heard the name. Brinley could feel the distaste coming off Harry in waves. And… fear. A little fear.

  “The lanky guy in the old suit?” she asked.

  Harry leaned closer to her. “He might not bother with you, girl, but the rest of us could… or rather, we could bother you.”

  Brin’s stomach was churning with fear again, heart in her throat. “I think I’d like to check with him, actually. I’ve got a couple of pressing issues to sort out. With my life. Where does old Garrick live, Harry?”

  Shock. And for just a moment, she saw a warehouse, green-painted window frames… Harry glanced in a direction, and she felt that he didn’t want her to go that way. But all that happened in half a second. What Harry said was, “Not likely, little girl. Now run along. Go wherever you’re going, as long as it ain’t here.”

  Brinley turned to the bar and smiled sweetly at Harry. “See you around!” She waved a little wave and span to face the door, to leave the bar.

  Outside, it was getting dark. Raining still. She felt the crisp paper in her pocket, but it seemed like it was for later. She’d been going by instinct so far, and she felt, really felt, like the moody, lanky dragon king was who she needed to talk to now. Goodness knew how she would interact with him. He hadn’t exactly seemed like an open book, or as if he’d liked her. But he intrigued her. And, well, he might be one of the only people who could help her. With her father and with Xander… Bloody Xander. They would both be looking for her and for the book. Her father would be more concerned for the book, and then for the marriage. He wasn’t about to be overthrown—she was his meal ticket.

  Brinley hoped her spell of distraction was helping. Xander was powerful, and her father more so. The anger would be clouding them, though; that was on her side.

  She had turned back towards where she had walked earlier, and she was scanning the apartment buildings and converted warehouses for those windows. It was wet, and she was getting chilly and irritated, and then she saw them. Down a thin side street that used to be a back alley for deliveries, she supposed. Looking up, she didn’t notice the bike until it was passing her, a great roaring thing. And on it, him, Garrick, the bloody dragon king, swerving in the rain with no helmet on. He was going to bloody kill someone.

  She didn’t mean to cast the spell. She didn’t even know she knew how to cast such a powerful protection spell. But she felt it pour out of her. She was thrown back against the wall behind her as it was, and she had to fight not to fall to the wet ground.

  Brinley saw it happen while she stood there in the drizzle on Garrick’s street. She saw him take a turn too fast, felt herself righting him, saw the truck nearly hit him, saw him cut off a Volvo with a fam
ily inside… It was exhausting. Brinley stumbled across the road to the warehouse with the green windows. In the doorway, she slumped into a witchy little pile. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  Brin dreamed of wings; loud wings that ripped the air into pieces, wings that must belong to something big, wings that fanned her face, sprayed the rain in her…

  She woke with a gasp. The dragon was squashed into the narrow old street, looking at her, head to the side. Then, of course, he shrank, twisted. The last thing to go was the blue-grey sheen of scales, and Garrick was crouched there on the cobblestones.

  He coughed, a little puff of smoke. He blinked, eyes flashing one more time, and then he said, “Hello, little witch. Why are you in my doorway?”

  Brinley scrabbled to push herself up off the floor, leaning against the wall of the doorway. “I… There’s a really confused truck driver at Milton Keynes services, and the kids in the back of the Volvo are squabbling because their parents are lost…”

  Garrick smiled, stretching his long arms. He was surprisingly muscular, his pale skin creamier than it had seemed before, in the dark bar. He had very little body hair. Even his leg hair was golden and soft looking.

  “So,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “it was you then?”

  Brinley nodded. “Apparently so,” she said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Well, before you do that, could you grab me that bag over there?” Garrick pointed to a satchel that was laying on the ground, its strap snapped.

  “You keep the fancy suits in there?” Brin asked and regretted trying to talk so much. She almost gagged. Then she half-crawled to the bag and threw it to Garrick.

  “Thanks,” he said, “and yeah, I do. They were expensive even in the ‘60s. But I don’t have to show off all the time.” Brin raised her eyebrows and slumped back against the wall. Garrick pulled out a t-shirt and a plain pair of black jeans. She couldn’t help following his lovely, fluid movements. “You’re welcome to keep looking at me, little witch, but you’re about to see my bits.”