Brace For the Wolves

by Nathan Thompson

  “No,” she repeated, then corrected herself quickly. “No, sir.”

  “Alright then,” my father declared. “Let me ask you one more question. Do you want your mother to end up like his mother? That would take a little longer, Selena. That would take ten minutes, because I'd have to make an extra phone call. But I can still do that for you, Selena. Would you like that?”

  “No, sir,” she said even more quickly. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I swear.”

  “You're done eating,” my father informed her. “Get your overpriced ass upstairs. You know what to do next.”

  Shame and relief warred over the face of the woman who had just spoken up for me. She got up from the table, not daring to look any direction but down, and hurriedly raced toward the stairs, stumbling as she tried not to trip in her heels. My father watched her go with a satisfied smirk, and then he turned to look at me again.

  “Four questions,” my father said as he sat back down, clearly in a better mood. “It should never take you longer than four questions to rein in a woman. Even an uppity, entitled trophy who calls herself your wife. Remember that, son.”

  “Yes, Father,” I said dutifully, trying not to think of what had just happened, or how differently it ran against my expectations of the woman who had just tried to be my stepmother.

  Dad's in a good mood, I realized. I need to change the subject or I'll make things worse. Both for her and for me.

  “It's connected, right?” I asked. “I know I should see it clearly, but I want to make sure I do. It's all connected, right?”

  “Specify what you're asking,” my father said. He crossed his arms and leaned back, interested in whatever I was trying to understand. That was a good sign.

  “The Browns and the Malcolms,” I went on, sliding back into my own chair. “How you talk about them both. It's similar. And for a reason. But I'm not sure I've grasped the main one.”

  “Go on,” my father said, nodding. “Explain what you've seen.”

  “We talk about the Browns as if they're not going to be next,” I said, and I didn't apologize for the fight because an apology would be a sign of weakness right now. “Like they're not the next loose end we may have to deal with. But we will, because they know too much and even after the car wreck that left Mrs. Brown wheelchair-bound, Davelon's dad still hasn't been a hundred percent submissive. That's why so much work went into John Malcolm's death. You talked about it. How you called in over a dozen favors to make key people in their church move. How you worked to find out their dream goals or jobs, and actually risked the Order's wrath to make that happen. Just so they'd leave town. Leave Malcolm and his family isolated. And Davelon is the same way, if not worse.”

  Don't sweat, I told myself. Don't give anything away.

  Because if Davelon or his family did die, and Wes lived, he'd come after me as soon as he could. I saw the look he gave me when I showed him the video with Val's torture-confession. Something told me that deep down, Wes Malcolm was done being nice. Call it intuition. Call it years of familiarity, born from bullying, hounding, and hating the upright bastard.

  Either way, if something happened to the Browns and Malcolm found out about it, I doubt I'd like the consequences.

  “So I know you've got a plan for the Browns,” I finished. “But we're not talking about it. We're talking how we're concerned with their wellbeing, even in the privacy of our own home, but you made clear that you're not afraid of them by talking about them so much. That part I feel like I have a better handle on. It's the next group that I'm unclear on.”

  Warren Rhodes nodded.

  “It's the Malcolms I'm unclear on,” I persisted. “We keep calling Wes a pedophile's brat. And a retard, or a cripplehead. I know part of the reason we continue calling him those things is because we're responsible for those lies and have to maintain them, but in the privacy of our own home, don't we risk believing our own lies? Like if we really believe John Malcolm was a pedophile, doesn't that make us more vulnerable, since it's not true?”

  “No,” my father said simply, but smugly. “But I'm glad you're ready to hear why.”

  I nodded, because I actually did want to know Dad's reason for this. Especially since he wasn't disappointed in me for not knowing. “You're confusing social truth with scientific truth,” he explained. “Scientific truth is absolute, and it benefits greatly those who know over those who believe a lie. A man that knows the weather patterns has an advantage over a man that does not. Same with a man that understands the tides over one that sacrifices his wealth to the sea gods.” That was a slightly touchy subject, since Dad's Order walked a weird line between disdaining faith yet embracing the occult. And making pacts with strange creatures below or beyond the earth. But my dad showed no discomfort with his reference and ploughed right on. “Social truth, however, almost never benefits the knower. In fact, it is restrained by belief. Say you know a person at school is not a thief, though everyone else believes he is. As long as everyone believes he stole something, and as long as that thing remains missing, they will judge him no matter how many times you profess his innocence. In fact, your association with him will harm you, not help him. Some of their suspicion will travel over to you, and you both will be worse off.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “But what about any gratitude he showed me for trusting him? Doesn't the truth grant me that?”

  “No,” my father replied, actually pleased with the question. That was rare. Dad smiling at me was rare. But it was happening more recently, I realized. Even though we were fighting more, I was also getting more signs of approval. He's let go, I realized. And he might actually be nicer, now that he's let go. For me at least. But even today wasn't as bad as other days had been.

  “The truth is not granting you gratitude,” he continued. “His perception of you is granting you gratitude. Granting you a potential tool. But if he never perceives that you trust him even when you do, then that truth is also useless.”

  “I think I see,” I said slowly. “Scientific truth can almost always be acted on. But social truth is entirely dependent on people recognizing it. And that makes the recognition more important than the truth.”

  “Exactly,” my father said with another rare smile. “And that is why calling John Malcolm a pedophile makes us less vulnerable, not more-so.” Dad leaned forward. “If we believe what is already common knowledge, we stand out less, making us safer, in the face of those who wish to harm us, and also more dangerous, because we are ignored as a threat. Furthermore, what does revealing John's innocence change? Is a person suddenly less dead if it's revealed he did not commit suicide, but was murdered?”

  “No,” I said, “but wouldn't people's perception change if someone provided enough proof?” Like I gave Wes, I thought briefly, then banished the thought.

  “People's perception can always change, can always be influenced. Whether they find out the truth or not,” my father explained. “With John Malcolm, our biggest weapon isn't how hard we've hidden the evidence, it's how much people are motivated to believe a certain perception. For example, it's easy to believe these days that such an upstanding man would be carrying such a dark secret. I can think of a half dozen movies and books with that very plot, without any effort at all. Then you reinforce that with the three victims' testimony, without anyone else able to verify where John Malcolm was at the time. Finally, and most importantly—” my father raised a finger—“we have a number of powerful people who have a vested interest in making sure John Malcolm's reputation doesn't change. In fact, they would suffer long before we ever did, if that truth became public perception.

  “But say again someone, somewhere, stands up and says John Malcolm was framed,” my father continued. “People won't be motivated to do much. His friends have all long moved, so he gains no connections back. He is still dead, so he does not get his life or family back. And it's too late to save those little girls, because they were scheduled to be broken in and given to their buyers the day after Crip
plehead's execution. So again, no matter what gets revealed, those three—four now, excuse me—four girls will still be victims.”

  My desire for approval retreated. Because right now, in my dad, I recognized the man I was starting to become.

  Dad's phone rang.

  He looked down at it in shock, some of the pleasure leaving his face. He reached down very deliberately to pick it up and place it next to his ear.

  “You called me. Right now,” he stated flatly, and I thought I heard some stammered apologies on the other end of the line. “Stop whining, and prove that this is important,” Mr. Rhodes demanded. “Yes I know about our operations on Avalon, it's going to be... what? What did you say?” Dad's shoulders tensed. “Say it again. No. Not that. The part before. Say it very slowly... repeat that, so that I know you're sure. Really? That really happened?” My father took a deep breath, and I saw his free hand clench in anger. The hand holding the phone though, remained relaxed. “Okay,” he growled, trying to sound calm. “Tell me how... Malcolm?” my father growled in uncharacteristic shock. “Wes Malcolm? Cripplehead? You lost men to Cripplehead? Tell me how... he tricked you. A tortured, broken, teenage boy tricked you... no I don't believe he wasn't broken. Are you saying he would have tricked me too? Well then you're at fault then... I don't care. Enough of this. Just tell me how many guards did he get through, other than you... what?”

  My father blinked.

  “No, wait,” he insisted. “Explain. How many...that's the wrong number...yes it is the wrong number. Do you know why I know it's the wrong number? Because I'm supposed to get a phone call from Shepherds if we have that many casualties. So that we can train and correct those troops before we send them out to die again. Are you saying Shepherds forgot how to make a phone call, and so you had to do it? ...He's where?” my father asked, and surprise, that rare emotion, flittered across his face again.

  “Cardiac arrest? Which hospital? When was he admitted? What did he say? Find out. And then let me know. And then show initiative and figure out what I expect you to do next. Now tell me what we lost....What?”

  My father's face actually turned pale. I hadn't seen that even when he stood before Cavus.

  “You're lying,” he growled. “No, I don't believe it was destroyed. I have no reason to believe the portal could be destroyed. We didn't build a way for those portals to be destroyed. Try to go in again... not even that much? You're sure? Because a team is coming for you if you're lying, I can promise you that. Okay—” my father put a large palm over his face—“this is very unfortunate. Yes, I know you know. We will all know more before the day is over. Right now we have to salvage any of the prisoners that were... all of them. You lost all of the prisoners. A crippled teenage boy beat you all like a bunch of disobedient little kids, and then he made off with nearly all of the storage and absolutely all of our prisoners? After he blew up our only access to Avalon? Are you trying to write the script for a movie right now? Is that what's happening? You're testing your creative talent today? Alright, well at least none of the locals had buyers yet. Nothing finalized at least. Confirm that the four girls were sent to... what? What did you say? That's impossible. There's no way any of you would be stupid enough to allow that to happen... all four of them... all already paid for... all already paid for with political favors... alright, you're relieved. Get me the names of the whole team on duty that day, and then report to Stavros, and tell him you are in need of leadership. And have him call me. Yes, now!” That last word came out as an angry bark, and then he hung up. He held the phone down at his side.

  “Chris,” he said without looking at me. “Go upstairs and tell Celeste she's off duty for tonight. Tell her to sleep in the guestroom and that I don't want to see her face this evening.”

  “On it,” I said confidently, clearing the table and walking briskly to where my stepmom was upstairs. It's Rebecca, actually, I thought at my father. Your wife's name is Rebecca.

  But then I heard a scream of rage, as well as the sound of the massive dining table hurtle against a wall, and I knew it was a bad time to bring that fact up to my dad.

  Besides, I had my own plans to make now.

  Chapter 19: I Will Be Whole. I Will Be King

  Wes' Perspective

  “This is cheating, Wes,” Breena said to me, sitting on my shoulder. “You know that, right? You know you're cheating again?”

  The mist rolled around the edge of Guineve’s lake, where we had moved the healing chamber to after the destruction of the remaining Horde and their pits. It proved to be far more effective than the courtyard at the shelter, which explained why Avalon’s Guardian had been using it to recover before. I waited next to Guineve, while Eadric and the others stood behind us. Virtus stood somewhere off to the side, where he wouldn't be immediately noticed but could still intervene quickly if something went wrong.

  “I figured it might be,” I said with a grin. “That's why I need you around though, Breena. Because you're the only one who knows what to do with a cheater like me.”

  “Please,” she said, making a raspberry. “But since your cheating yesterday arguably saved all of our lives, I'll deign to allow this,” she said loftily. “You're going back to bed after this, though,” she declared, waving a finger at my face. “But only because we love you and we want you to get better, and because we have all the time in the world to make that happen,” she added, leaning forward to give me a surprise kiss on the cheek.

  She had been doing that sort of thing a bit more recently, and I didn't quite know what to make of it.

  “In fact,” Breena continued. “If you're really good, I'll help you learn all those new things you were wanting to learn.”

  “Really?” I asked, fighting excitement. “But we've lost so much time.”

  “Time only passed that way for you because of the number of deaths,” Breena explained. “It was an issue with projected bodies. On Avalon time usually passes more slowly, so you have more of it here than on the other worlds. And since you are a planetary lord, the time is also tied to your victories and defeats. You gained a major victory the other day, so you're especially good right now.”

  “Really?” I asked. “That's great news then.”

  There were still a lot of things to take care of, such as securing this new settlement and investigating the rest of the dungeon below. But yeah, getting stronger sounded like a really good idea.

  “Hush, dears,” Guineve whispered. “It's beginning.”

  I looked over to the edge of the lake. The shallow waters that we had placed the remains of the Horde captives in. Avalon had promised they could return. The first one appeared to be doing just that.

  The tallest of the four smoky figures we had carried away after destroying the first Horde Pit—and we had cleaned out the other two just yesterday, but that's a story for another time—rose shakily on its feet. It swayed to and fro for a moment, but then Avalon's mist began to pour into it, and detail and color filled the figure.

  A moment later, a hastily clothed man walked forward.

  “I...what?” he asked, dazed and lost.

  “You're alive,” I said, walking forward carefully. “You're somewhere safe,” I insisted. “And like many before and after you,” I promised, feeling like my soul twist, “you will be whole despite your harms.”

  A cry came from behind us. One of the refugee women had snuck close by, and when she saw the new man she ran toward him. He let out his own cry of surprise and took her in his arms. The two began weeping and laughing at once. Breena began flying around them, probably doing some checks to make sure the man had properly resurrected.

  “Wes?” Guineve asked me from behind. “Good Wes?”

  She always had the kindest names for me. I didn't understand why.

  “Yes, Guineve?” I asked as I turned to her.

  “This is a beautiful thing you’ve done. Thank you.” She smiled at me. I tried not to let it affect me too much. The next moment though, she became serious. “Can
you come with me, though?”

  “Sure,” I replied, looking at the weeping couple. They looked like they needed a minute or ten anyway.