Page 5 of Black Moon

I plastered on a smile and listened. There was nothing else to do, as he worked through how very important he was to omegas all over. Not once did he mention the one who’d spent the last thirty-five years at his side. Not until the end, when he said how grateful he was to have his very own.

At the end of Dad’s speech, while the crowd was still applauding, my editor snuck over and sat behind me, leaning over from the other table to whisper in my ear. She pushed against the back of my chair, her arms crossed on the linen-covered metal frame, and smirked at me.

“So, you know those rural packs you’ve been reaching out to for months?”

As if I could have forgotten. I’d been trying to get an interview with an alpha for the better part of a year. All along the eastern seaboard, there were packs that kept to themselves—packs that had more omegas, that were able to keep them healthy—in a way no urban werewolves had been able to manage.

Not every omega suffered from the Condition—many of us didn’t ever get it. But for those who did, it was devastating. I’d been lucky, so had Mom, but I had a sneaking suspicion it was the kind of lucky that came from having money and time and resources, not some blessing of incredible genes.

There was something out there in the country that was doing good for people like me, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.

My dad could flash his money and power around all he wanted, but this fundraiser was only a show to satisfy his constituents. Werewolves around the country were suffering—omegas diminishing and alphas getting increasingly volatile. It wasn’t just our people who cared about that, either. Humans didn’t want werewolves getting increasingly bitey and dangerous.

If Dad could keep werewolves in line, you could bet your ass the humans were going to keep him in the Senate and toss him money for whatever soiree he wanted to throw to get his face out there.

“Yeah? Some pack from the boonies wants to do an interview?” I asked, watching her from the corners of my eyes.

“Some pack from the boonies is inviting you to come out and stay with them a while. The Grove pack, down in Virginia.”

I frowned. “They the ones who are doing so well?”

Not many packs had strong omega lines anymore, but the Groves had at least one—an entire family of omegas, enough to sooth the volatile natures of alphas in their pack.

She nodded. “Lot you could learn if they’ll let you in, but you’d have to go soon.”

I stared at my father on the stage, shaking the hands of other important politicians. If I could get out of having to grace these awful events with my smiling face and learn about what was happening to omegas with one fell swoop, that sounded perfect.

“I’ll pack my bags tonight.”

3

Linden

Standing at my father’s grave was difficult. It still didn’t feel real, like at any moment he’d show up to stand beside me, ready to mourn whatever pack member had actually died. The whole pack had shown up, unsurprisingly.

Well, the whole pack with a few notable exceptions.

Trying to get information out of the military is difficult even when you have a right to that information. If they don’t know who you are or whether you’re some kind of scam artist? You’re better off talking to a wall.

At least walls don’t imply you’re a liar when you tell them you’re trying to find your brother so you can tell him his father has died.

Unfortunately, all I knew about my brother’s life after the pack was that when he left us, he enlisted in the navy. And you can’t just call “the navy” and ask where your brother is.

Four children, my father had in his lifetime. It wasn’t a ridiculous amount, but probably enough to satisfy most people who wanted kids. There was me, the doctor. There was my younger sister, Juniper, who had taken over running the family apple orchard. There was baby Rowan, who was in his early twenties, and swiftly becoming one of the best bakers in the world as far as I was concerned.

But my father’s last thought, the last fuck given in the whole world, was for our older brother, Aspen Junior, who hadn’t spoken to any of us in almost a decade. Who I couldn’t contact.

Who didn’t show up for the goddamned funeral.

Maybe it was for the best he hadn’t come. If I saw him right then, I might just be inclined to punch him square in the nose. And, well, that would be bad for me, since last time I saw him, Aspen had four inches and a good forty pounds on me. I’d probably break my knuckles before I broke his nose.

Skye, somehow always at my side, leaned his head on my shoulder, and it was like something in my chest released, letting me take a full breath.

Okay, fine, it probably wasn’t specifically Aspen’s fault that he was out of contact. It wasn’t like there was one enormous navy hotline, and he’d told them to turn his family away.

But would it have been so hard to give someone—anyone—in thewhole packa way to contact him?

Every member of the pack who physically could took their turn dropping a shovel full of dirt into the grave. Doing their part to say goodbye to the man who had led the pack for close to forty years. Who had managed to keep us a stable, peaceful pack for decades. Who had kept us mostly safe through the Condition, when it had devastated other packs who’d been less quick to respond to the crisis.

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