Brace For the Wolves

by Nathan Thompson

  Chapter 18: Victory’s Aftermath

  Chris' Perspective

  “More water, young master?” the servant asked me as he hovered nearby with a clear pitcher.

  “Yes,” I answered, purposefully not saying 'please' at the end. Father did not look up from his plate at that, and he had no reason to. We use manners in public, where we still have to. But using manners with our own property, inside our own home, is weakness, and causes the sheep to forget the wolves are in charge.

  “Will there be anything else, masters?” the servant said after filling my glass, keeping his eyes low.

  “No,” my father answered for us. “Wait outside in case I call you.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Rhodes,” the man replied, exiting as quickly as professionally possible. Then my father looked at me.

  “Report,” he said to me plainly.

  And yes, 'report.' Not 'how was school today, Chris?' Not 'any tests coming up' or 'you doing alright on your scholarships?'

  Just, 'report.'

  But this was a little unusual, because the dark-haired, pretty, empty-headed Latina woman that everyone said I got my good looks and fantastic hair from, and whose main job seemed to be looking pretty and spending money, was still in the room.

  “It's fine,” my father said. “It's not a concern anymore.”

  The woman blinked at that, but she didn't ask any questions and Father didn't offer any explanations. He's gotten sloppy since Wes was taken care of, I realized. But I suppose it was natural. The last vestige of his most hated enemy was dead, and we all, theoretically, had access to power beyond our wildest imaginations. Even I could feel the difference, and my physical improvements had nearly blown the cover on our operation when some football scouts came by to look at me. I had saved it by proposing that I wouldn't even talk to other colleges if they could make me an offer good enough. They were currently trying to figure out how to offer me as many incentives as possible without violating any rules. Or at least getting caught violating the rules.

  I answered my father at any rate.

  “Most of the school is normal. Nobody really liked Wes except for the other school misfits and his handful of 'gratefuls.'” 'The gratefuls' were the derogatively named people that Wes had helped or stuck up for in the past, like Davelon or Christina, or those two goth exchange students. They all acted like they owed Wes because at one point he had done a super-nice-and-special thing for them, and so they either stuck up for him in return, like Davelon or that bitch Christina, or just didn't join in on the rumors I started about him, like those kids in drama class. Dad had found that behavior disgusting, so he gave them a special name. And took the time to teach me yet another of his wonderful and wise lessons. Never feel gratitude. Demonstrating gratitude can get you an advantage, or convince a person to be used again. But feeling gratitude means you were weak enough to need their help in the first place, and that you had to be dependent on them.

  And that was one of the stumbling blocks to power, he had gone on to say. Be dependent on no one, but make others dependent on you. The day I did that was the day I would finally be ready to join the Order our family had been a part of for generations.

  “Other than Ms. Springsen, none of the teachers are doing much to fight the rumor that he assaulted his psychologist. About half of the school doesn't really know what to make of the whole thing. They're slowly coming around though. The doctors we controlled leaked his medical records, showing that none of his symptoms could be verified, so it was very likely that he was faking his disability for attention. I'm trying to get that idea tossed around often enough so that most people will just believe it without thinking too much. Right now, though, everyone's treating it like the juicy gossip it is. They're talking about it even more than they did his dad's suicide.”

  “Don't do that,” my father said flatly.

  “Please explain,” I replied carefully. Because Dad was one of the few, or rather only, person I was required to show manners to inside the home. He was also the only person I was allowed to have a dependency on.

  “Don't put air quotes around the word suicide,” my father growled. “Don't even hint that it was the wrong idea.”

  I wasn't trying to, I wanted to say.

  “Yes sir,” I said instead.

  “How are his friends and family reacting?” my father asked. It was pointless, because we had all manner of resources monitoring Wes' old circles. We even had some kind of program monitor them, the same one we had used on him. I don't know how that got built but it must have cost everyone a fortune.

  Then again, this whole idea of conquering the magical land before time had cost everyone a fortune. We had remade this entire town, just to have a shot at it.

  “Wes' mom is in shock, but she hasn't started drinking again yet. Wes' sister has been on a warpath trying to get answers, but she hasn't done anything but glare suspiciously at me yet.”

  “What about Davelon?” my father asked quietly.

  Now that was careless.

  Because there was no way in hell that the big-boobed, brainless Mrs. Rhodes had clearance for that discussion. Dad wasn't stupid enough to let someone who slept with him know all of his secrets. Especially not ones that involve murder or the conspiracy to commit it.

  “Chris,” Warren Rhodes said quietly. “I'm trying to show interest in your life because I'm concerned about your wellbeing and the wellbeing of your peers. Why don't you tell me how the Browns are taking Wes' disappearance?”

  Fuck.

  “Dad, Davelon doesn't believe for a minute that Wes' disappearance is anything but a conspiracy.”

  “Has he said as much?” my father asked calmly.

  It was like he was gloating, I decided as I stared at the massive man across the table. Gloating over the fact that he can just casually talk about killing a kid and his entire family.

  Not that he hadn't gone after the Browns before.

  That was part of the problem, actually. Davelon's dad was a high-profile official that had moved down south after being responsible for several big corruption busts. He could have probably wound up getting elected mayor or some kind of chief, but he was worried about all the heat he was attracting from the criminal world in whatever Northeastern city he won't admit he came from. He wanted a quiet neighborhood for his son to have his high school years in. That and most Texas towns were known for football, and the Browns loved football. It was supposed to be a quiet, easy place to prepare Davelon for college.

  So when my father had arranged for Davelon's dad to be in his pocket, needed him to be in his pocket because he needed to lock down law enforcement in this town, the ignorant hero from elsewhere had categorically rejected any hint of a bribe. That had amused my father at first. It had been a long time since Dad had needed to make an example of someone, and even though New Arlington was a different place back then, it wasn't too hard for the Browns to become the victims of a tragic and terrible car accident, brought on by yet another drunk and random driver that fled the scene. They would have gotten a hero's funeral and life would have moved on.

  The irony concerning the fact that the Malcolms just happened to be driving by and decided to intervene was an event that my father had spent years throwing rages about.

  But now John Malcolm was dead. Wes Malcolm was probably dead, though I'd find out more about that in a day, max. And with my dad preparing to live an immortal life in whatever fantasy kingdom he carved out instead of here, he had no reason to leave any loose ends alive.

  So the fact that he was creating two more by having me talk about this stuff was scary as hell.

  “No, Dad,” I said tiredly, knowing Dad would see me as a bigger liability if I started lying about things like this. “Davelon isn't going to go around proclaiming that Wes is the victim of a conspiracy because he knows no one will believe him. Instead he's laying low, asking certain people certain questions, generally trying to get to the bottom himself without getting anyone else involved. That's it.
I have no idea what his dad is doing but his mother has been visiting Mrs. Malcolm a lot to offer support. Davelon's also checking on Wes' sister. I think he's worried about something happening to her next.”

  “Dumbass,” my father snorted. “It's nothing to be concerned about though.”

  And that was it, I knew. Dad had already arranged for someone to put out a hit on Davelon and his family. I shouldn't have been surprised, in retrospect, even though Dad usually didn't talk about terminating people in front of me—well, except for the Malcolms, but that was because John Malcolm had been an obsession of his. But now that my father felt his immortality to be ensured, there were a lot of liberties he had begun to take. The murder of my classmate and his family was apparently going to be the next.

  Even if I decided I was stupid enough to care, though, I kept my mouth shut. Because there wasn't anything I could do about it and the idea that their deaths could even come back to touch Dad in some way was depressingly laughable.

  I just hoped they gave Davelon's mother a clean death.

  If Wes survives, he won't forgive me for this, I knew.

  “But yeah, that's what happening at school,” I said with a shrug, rearranging the food on my plate. “I'm kind of surprised you didn't already know all of this,” I dared to say.

  It was a mistake. Proof my nerves had been getting to me these past few weeks. But I couldn't help it. I was too wound up from my secret conversation with Wes yesterday, and the whole discovery and invasion of Avalon a few months back, and the rest of all this fucking nonsense. So I decided to snap at my dad for bringing our secret Illuminati mafia bullshit to the dinner table.

  He didn't take it very well.

  “What do you mean, 'you're surprised I didn't already know all of this?'” my father asked with a deadpan stare.

  It was a warning. I didn't take it.

  “I mean you're a good parent and you keep careful watch on your kid,” I replied a little louder than I meant, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “You work to keep an eye on my friends. You work really hard to make sure I know how to treat a woman—” way too much heat there, but I couldn't help it right now—“You keep tabs on all of my scholarship hours, and on top of that you make sure I'm up to date on the family business.”

  I wasn't shouting yet, but it wasn't going to matter. I was going to pay for this and I knew it. I was just too wound up to care.

  “Are you saying you feel overly smothered, son?” my father asked mildly. “That I restrict your freedom too much? Or that I'm giving you too many responsibilities? Right now of all times?” There was a slight edge to that statement, and I knew he had contempt for my not holding it together. In his view everything was already taken care of. John was dead, his son was finally dead, we had keys to the magical ponyland, and we were currently winning there on all fronts. Somehow Wes' original deaths had let us advance time faster there. I think it had something to do with him being a Champion or a Challenger or whatever and 'failing' so much.

  “I'm saying I don't know why we're bringing up Davelon's family at the dinner table, Dad,” I tried not to hiss. “That's all.”

  A flicker of disbelief, then understanding, then more disbelief passed through Warren Rhodes’ face.

  “You're...” He searched for the right word. “Overwhelmed.”

  It wasn't a question. It was a pronouncement. A judgement.

  A condemnation.

  I was letting the pressure of the family business get to me, and he scorned me for it.

  “So what if I'm overwhelmed?” I shouted, because fuck it, there were monsters and aliens and I had seen the creepiest monster of all take an oath of service from my actual father and I knew one day that thing would come back to visit us again. I didn't even know where Dad had met Cavus, it was an even bigger secret than the dragon pact Wes' ancestor had made those generations ago.

  God damn it, I had just thought the phrase 'dragon pact.'

  “So what if I'm overwhelmed! You make me earn scholarships, turn down those same scholarships, work for the 'family business,' get turned down for real progress in said business, despite how much I know about it, bust my ass in football and those other clubs even though I'm supposed to be too good for them in the long run, and on top of all of that I'm supposed to keep friendly tabs on the Malcolms and Browns! Like I'm the neighborhood watch captain just stopping by! What is it you want from me, Dad? Just what is it you really want?”

  “What I want,” Warren Rhodes replied, his voice dripping with disappointment. “is to have a son that becomes what I and the rest of the world need him to be. And what we need him to become is a proper man, instead of something that throws a fit when he gets too stressed or during a certain cycle of the moon. Now calm down and grow up.”

  “Be what you need me to be?” I spat. “A proper man? I spent the last three years being exactly what you needed me to be! I spent the last three years of my life checking on Wes Malcolm! As if I was his secret handler in everybody's favorite spy movie! I did everything you asked me to do regarding him! And now I'm still doing it! I'm still checking in on his family and his friends, like someone's actually going to let out a useful secret about him during lunch period, or in AP Bio!”

  “Yes, son,” my father said, raising his voice, and the table shook as the massive man began to push off of it. “You weren't supposed to be intimidated by a cripple-headed pedophile's brat! You weren't even supposed to be challenged by him! You were supposed to make him look pitiful just by comparison to you! You were supposed to leave him so far behind in the dust—”

  “Honey,” Mrs. Rhodes interrupted. I turned to look at her in shock, and I'm pretty sure Dad did too. “I think you're getting too worked up.”

  My father hadn't actually looked at the woman yet, but he turned his head now.

  “What?” he asked softly.

  “I mean listen to yourself, dear,” the dark-haired trophy wife spoke up, doing her best to sound sweet. “You and Chris are both so worked up right now that you've started screaming at each other. I think things have been harder on you than you realize, and so you're being harder on Chris than you realize. But you and our boy have both earned a break, darling. So maybe we could all just take a deep breath, sit back down and enjoy a wonderful dinner?”

  I stared at her in shock. My father just stared at her in stony silence.

  “Did you just talk?” my father asked his wife.

  She actually persisted, of all things.

  “I was just worried about you, sweetheart,” she said carefully. “I know how hard you work to be a father for our son and I don't want him to get the wrong idea of how much you—”

  “Our son?” my father demanded, a look somewhere between shock and frosty rage trying to climb up his face. “You call him our son, like you're trying to sneak some kind of claim on him?”

  Her face paled.

  “I didn't mean...” she tried to say.

  “And you interrupted me to say that,” my father rumbled on, still staring at her with that cold look. “You decided, while I was still talking, to inform me that he was our son. Not mine. Ours.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said, quickly, and in a small, frightened voice.

  “And look at you,” my father continued. “Still talking. Alright then, Selena,” my father rasped in a low voice. Her name wasn't Selena. But neither I nor her were stupid enough to point that out. “Let me ask you a question. Do you want, do you actually want, to end up like his real mother did?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “No,” she said in a smaller, shakier voice.

  “Are you sure, Selena?” my father continued. “It would only take five minutes to arrange. Are you sure you don't want to end up like the real mother of my son?”