Page 9 of The Sacred Wolf

So, we’re really doing this?

We’re doing something. Hell if I know what.

You won’t be able to take it back.

Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? For me to buckle down and be part of the pack?

Part, yes. Alpha…

I pulled up so short in the middle of the sidewalk that a female human behind me nearly slammed into my back. She threw a few choice words my way, which felt somewhat deserved given that I’d almost caused her to muss her fresh blowout, so I broke the cardinal rule of Manhattan and mumbled an apology. With a huffing readjustment of her pale blue Birkin, she hustled away, leaving me with a parting shot of her surgically sculpted rear not bouncing even a little bit in black leggings that made the shiftskin under my T-shirt and jeans feel like loose pajamas.

I stepped out of the bustling foot traffic before we collided with any other ladies who lunched or tripped over one of the tiny pieces of fluff on a string—or in strollers!—they called dogs. There had been some drama with my second cab driver of the day, and I’d been dropped off near the river on the south side of the Queensboro Bridge--several blocks from the tramway station. Now I was trekking through the alien landscape of Sutton Place mid-day, and finding that I much preferred the pace and atmosphere of East Harlem in the middle of the night.

Not wanting anyone to see my so-called tennis ball eyes, I feigned interest in the menu posted outside a small vegan café. You’ve been going on about taking what’s ours all day! Don’t tell me you’re doubting yourself now.

Of course not. My wolf snorted. I’m doubting you.

Nice. Thanks. Another great talk.

Shaking my head at my constant companion and the cost of sprouts, I had just turned away from the menu when she hit me with: You’re only doing this to make Father proud.

Yeah, well, that’s what Alpha Heirs do.

For the rest of your life?

You know, you really are the Queen of Mixed Signals.

I waited a few seconds to see if that had really shut her up, and then I merged back into the flow of pedestrians moving through the shadows of the Queensboro Bridge. I’d originally planned to be on the other side of it by now, but my cabbie had taken one look at the standstill traffic overhead and suggested I take the tram or the subway out to Roosevelt Island instead of going all the way into Queens to access the narrow strip of pack-neutral land via yet another albeit much smaller bridge.

I was neither surprised nor disappointed by this delay. The old bridge had been under successive rounds of renovation for as long as I could remember. Its beige struts were one of the fixtures of the skyline from the south side of the Bronx high-rise, and on a clear day, I could even catch a glimpse of the bright red trams soaring past them. I was counting on crossing it off my bucket list to give me the shot of pure dopamine I would need in order to feel properly invincible when I reached the island and barged into the five-borough meeting to proclaim myself one of the Pack Daddies.

I think the word you’re looking for is Lil Pack Daddy.

No. My father has fallen, and I’m the true firstborn. I am the Bronx Alpha

You’re going to have to fight. Kiana beat him fair and square.

I don’t think those words mean what you think they—.

I pulled up short for the second time in only twice as many minute, but this time it had nothing to do with my annoying other half, and everything to do with the bizarre scene waiting for me at the base of the bridge across the street. There were a number of shops nestled in the stone footings, but it was impossible to tell what any of them held because of the hundreds of flapping yellow flyers covering them like flies on a corpse.

My wolf jumped to attention, straining the edges of my skin and lending me her enhanced senses to scan the area for danger. I didn’t understand. Yes, someone had gone a little nuts with their marketing campaign, to the point that it felt like something from a post-apocalyptic thriller, but it was probably just some over eager band or comedian, not someone trying to hurt anyone.

Look closer!

As soon as she said it, the eerie red and white eyes of the Alma Mater Animalis villain appeared between the flyers like a jump-scare. But I’d seen the ad often enough to know that there shouldn’t be any red. My empty stomach fizzled and flipped as I hurried across the street, ignoring my wolf’s protests. The closer I got the more of the underlying damage I could see, and the more I wanted to throw up.

The show’s glowing list of Emmy wins had been slashed to ribbons near the bottom while the worried faces of the two female leads had been sprayed with blood-red paint. I could make out just enough of the giant letters to know someone had once again scrawled KEEP U.S. HUMAN onto a show poster, but there was a second set of letters I couldn’t figure out. I started grabbing flyers and tossing them on the ground until I revealed enough to get the gist: EUTHANIZE THE DOGS.

I stepped back and swallowed hard. Well, that escalated quickly.

Or maybe it’s been escalating very slowly for a very long time.

In a heartbeat, I was back on the subway… surrounded by bodies and sloshing blood… so much blood… Human or shifter, it all looked like something stirred up in a Hollywood special effects lab when you spilled that many gallons of it. Unreal. Too real. She was gone…

Bile hit the back of my throat, bringing me back to the moment but not breaking my spiral of guilt. The second season of the blockbuster streaming series had aired a week after I lost Charlie and Jayla forever, so even though I’d found myself unexpectedly invested in season one, I couldn’t bring myself to keep watching, knowing neither of them would get to. Charlie because she was dead, and Jayla because she was probably too traumatized by what she’d witnessed in real life to enjoy any make-believe violence.

I guess I stole her future husband too.

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