Page 38 of The Red Moon

Armed guards greet each car, their rifles trained on the four of us. They might have firepower, but I don’t think they know who they have chained up. Nik didn’t fight. Didn’t protest. He knew from the moment we touched down exactly what we were getting into. Where we’d be taken. He might be calm right now with his palm secured to my thigh, but they really have no idea what would happen if he lost his composure. Not yet.

They rip us from the vehicles one by one, the four of us once again staring down weapons designed—poorly according to Alexey—to kill their own kind. My kind now. There’s no denying it to myself anymore, not when I can pick out the fastest beating heart of the bunch and point to it with my eyes closed. More than that, I can hear their organs twisting with what I can only imagine is fear.

The Duval den is a lot different from the Vostik house, particularly how the structure reflects more of a Gothic-era cathedral than the modern mansion I was taken to in Russia. Two large towers reach for the heavens at the entrance, and matching rose-colored windows peer over the property in half circles. The stonework is breathtaking, each piece of the building handcrafted what looks like centuries ago.

We’re escorted through the main hall, passing portraits of who I imagine are past alphas along the way. They’re displayed in the same fashion of the Vostik line I saw in the study, yet after the final portrait—Clément—the family tree stops, leaving the rest of the wall vacant. Clément’s painting watches us every step of the way, his intimidating eyes a bloody shade of red and thick brow raised as if he’s judging us for daring to enter his den. Long black hair parts at the center of his face and cascades down each shoulder. A goatee wraps around his snarling mouth, and strong black lines of stubble mark each cheek. This is the werewolf we traveled to France to reason with? His fucking painting looks like it wants to kill me. I can only imagine how menacing this animal is in the flesh.

We carry on, though, and the ivory floors reflect the vaulted ceilings and chandeliers every few paces, bringing light to the sealed doors on each side. Our tour guides walk alongside us, loaded rifles rattling with their uneven stride. They don’t say anything, they only wave the barrels forward when we don’t move fast enough to their liking.

It isn’t until we reach the double doors at the end of the hallway that the soldiers stop and inspect each of our faces individually. They might be glaring at me but I’m too distracted by the designs hand carved into the wooden surface to notice. Etched images of wolves take up one side, the largest of them positioned to attack. What’s on the other door is far more sinister. Humans. The recognizable silhouette of people grouped together, but there’s something off about them. The artist, for some reason, left their eyes blank. Hollow, almost. Is this how these old packs see the human race? So … lifeless?

“You do not speak unless spoken to,” the pack soldier says, breaking my focus on the doors. When he turns, we all shoot a quick glance in Alexey’s direction.

“What?” he whispers.

Air rushes out the second the door is opened, and with it, ten different heartbeats add to the noise already thrumming in my ears. Nik walks inside first, somehow undisturbed by the deafening sounds and voices pouring into the hallway. Me, well, I stagger forward with Dimitri and Alexey, wincing through the headache forming at the front of my skull.

The door closes at our backs without warning, and the heavy click of a dead bolt slamming into place drowns out the war raging in my ears.

“Nikolai Vostik,” a voice booms, accent thick and similar to the soldier that brought us here.

We all stare at the pack watching us from the comfort of a long, rectangular table positioned at the center of the room. Only one chair is left empty. The rest are occupied by what I can only assume are high-ranking members. Most are older, a few of them bald or close to it, leaning back in their chairs with disinterest. The largest of them, however, straightens in his seat, his sights drawn to Nik.

It’s dim but there’s a faint glow to his red eyes. Thinning black strands part at the center of his receding hairline, and what remains on the sides drapes down each shoulder. His beard is in dire need of a trim and practically covers his plump cheeks. He looks familiar. Well, more like one of those magic images you have to squint your eyes at to see clearly. It can’t be.

“Hello, Clément,” Nik says, his voice unwavering.

No. No, no, no. This is the alpha I saw in the hallway? Clément Duval? Are we being catfished? Am I really supposed to believe this is the same guy?

“I was wondering when you’d be stupid enough to come here,” he says and leans back into the chair, resting his hands on his stomach. “Come to beg for forgiveness? Ask me to add numbers to your father’s little pack?”

Nik tilts his head to the side and fights back laughter. I hear it. And I’m sure every single wolf in the room hears it, too. “Not quite.”

The bright red color returns to Clément’s eyes, same as his portrait in the hall. His round cheeks tighten and nostrils flare. He slams his clenched fist to the table, knocking over a few of the glasses, spilling maroon liquid to the surface. “You dishonored my pack. My daughter,” he shouts and pauses, waving a hand to his right. “And now you have the audacity to spit in our faces? You really came here to die, didn’t you?”

His daughter. That’s all I hear. All I latch onto despite every heartbeat at the table gaining momentum. I peer around Nik even though I’m sure he’s doing his best to keep me hidden from Clément’s wrath. It’s not the alpha I’m worried about. Not anymore. Dimitri takes a wider stance in front but it’s easy enough to find a spot between the two to see exactly who Clément was gesturing toward. And in an instant, I wish I would’ve saved myself the trouble.

Two emerald-green eyes pierce through the room, moving away from Nik and immediately finding my less-than-put-together appearance. Long black hair drapes down each side of her striking face. She scowls when she sees me, and somehow, it only seems to complement her high cheekbones. This wolf sits a bit straighter in her chair, gaze firmly locked on mine. You couldn’t help yourself, could you? You just had to see who Nik was engaged to. I swallow the large lump building in my throat, daring to keep my eyes fixed on her as well. The woman on the other end of the table doesn’t falter. No, her sharp glare only intensifies.

“What makes you think Jade would even consider you again after the way you embarrassed her?” Clément places his hand on hers and pats in a show of comfort.

Jade. Jade Duval. Heiress to the pack. I’m not exactly sure how the role of alpha is chosen through each generation, but I did notice something eerily similar between the portraits in the hall here and those at the Vostik compound. All of the alphas were men, firstborn sons of the pack leader. It has been this way from the start of their kind. Nik warned me they took tradition seriously, but I didn’t expect something this outdated to cross over to the supernatural. I guess even werewolves can’t escape the patriarchy.

“I’m not here to fulfill my father’s promise to you,” Nik says, his tone losing patience. An incredible heat fills the room, and I know exactly who it’s coming from. Nik’s heart rate spikes. His calm breaths become restrained and short. “I’m here to make another deal.”

Every wolf at the table turns and mutters something in French I can’t make out. Jade doesn’t say anything. Christ, she doesn’t even blink. No, she pins me with an icy glare, her red painted mouth thinned to a narrow line.

“Why would I make deal with you, Nikolai?” Clément spits each syllable of his name with disgust. “From what I hear, you are nothing now. Pack-less. Your own father put a kill order on your head. What could you possibly offer me?”

“What about an army that can control their transformation?” Nik’s voice lowers but is no less confident. The mutters stop. Every pair of eyes in the room widens on Nik as the air reaches an unbearable temperature. “Without a full moon.”

Clément runs his tongue over a long fang and finally scoffs. “Bullshit. That’s an old pack myth.”

Nikolai’s chains begin to rattle and twist. The shirt rips at his arching back, a thick protruding spine splitting down the center with brown fur taking its place. His fingers transform into razor-sharp claws and scratch away what human flesh is left from his arms. His legs. Even parts of his neck. The chains reach their breaking point and crack, falling against the ivory floors. It doesn’t matter how many times I see him change, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the beast inside him breaking free. I’m not the only one, either. Gasps work around the room, and the soldiers standing guard behind Clément snap their rifles forward, taking aim at us. Well … at one of us.

“It’s—true,” the alpha at the head of the table whispers, his jaw hanging low in amazement. This was what Nik meant. I understand now. Why he was so sure we would be able to walk away from coming here. Because I have something he wants.

When Nik reaches his true, monstrous form, he howls, and the earsplitting sound shakes not only the room, but what feels like the entire property. Terrified glances work from one end of the table to the next, and most of the elders slowly push their chairs back, ready to make a break for it, if I had to guess. All except him. Clément Duval doesn’t look like he wants to run for the exits. Doesn’t have the same fear etched in his aged features. No, he simply rises from his slouched position and grins at Nikolai intently.