A week went by without incident. No further attacks, no secret visits with his ex in the middle of the night.

A few hours each day, Markus worked at a tattoo parlor. He had no skill whatsoever with the gun since his hands weren’t steady enough, but he had the people skills to work the front desk. He took money and scheduled appointments. He also worked out designs for those who came in wanting something customized without any knowledge of what it was possible and acceptable for an artist to do. Certain colors could only be next to each other in certain cases, or else they would muddy and bleed. Designs could only be so small, so complex.

He could do that because making the design was different from applying it. There was room to make errors, to go back and erase and modify. With ink, what was done was done unless you knew how to cover it up.

He had a long chain of jobs under his belt, most of which he had been at for only a few months before moving onto the next. He was a jack of all trades, master of none. He liked knowing how to do so much without ever pinning himself down to one specialty.

Most of these jobs, he was working at small businesses where word of mouth went a long way. A good employee could bounce around just fine as long as he had some recommendations to go along with him.

When he wasn’t in the parlor, trying to explain to young girls that yellow and blue together would make green, dissuading drunks from getting dicks tattooed on their foreheads as a result of a dare, he was out roaming the city. Once upon a time, Ralphie had been the pack favorite. Now that he was gone, that position fell to Markus. Out of nowhere, everyone wanted to hang out with him. Everyone wanted to go do something. Feed the ducks at the park, and harass the skateboard punks. Linger at the beach and laugh at the terrible surfers, the idiots who messed with sea creatures and got hurt as a result of it. He’d learned his lesson after the jellyfish incident, though tourists never did. Patrol the border, making sure those Shadow Claws fucks stayed on their own side.

Today, he was out with Reuben and Jacob, who was also known as Daddy Long-Legs because he was incredibly tall, topping out at a grand total of 6’10”. And there was another reason, a very intriguing one: Jacob possessed a third leg, a vestigial limb protruding from slightly above his hip. The entire leg was only eight inches from beginning to end, topped off with a misshapen little foot with three toes that could all wiggle. The leg itself possessed no joints; the bones inside were cartilaginous and underdeveloped, which meant the leg could move around but not bend. It often did move, though Jacob said he had no real control over it. There seemed to be some sort of random nerve impulses that caused the limb to kick and twitch occasionally.

Jacob had come up with this name himself. He was a constant presence in freak shows, especially the seedy traveling ones, where he would stand before a crowd of gawkers in nothing but his underwear. The pay was extravagant and he was proud of the attention his extra leg earned him. He had been featured in a few medical journals, several newspaper articles, and occasionally made appearances in small-time movie productions and documentaries. The guy lived a life of leisure, basically.

His leg wasn’t a birth defect. It was the remnant of a parasitic twin his body had absorbed in the womb. That phenomenon was much more common than people thought, though it usually manifested as hairy warts or tumors with teeth inside them.

Oddly enough, he did not have an extra leg when he turned into a wolf.

But overall, despite the oddity, despite the sensationalism that came with it, Jacob was an all-around pretty decent guy. His motorcycle was a cruiser, and he liked to drift around, hitting on any woman who looked receptive enough.

“You know,” he was saying now, “lots of ‘em are real curious about it. Like to touch it. Stroke it. Like it’s a second cock or somethin’.”

Reuben took a deep drag on a cigarette he held between two fingers, then released a series of smoke rings. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “That’s gnarly, man. Real gnarly.”

Reuben was a surfer at heart, and he said words like “gnarly” in a completely serious manner.

Markus examined the glowing tip of his own cigarette. “Does it feel good when they do that?”

“Bet it feels good for the chicks,” Reuben supplied. “Bigger than his real chub.”

The mental image of absurdly-tall Jacob fucking someone sideways with his third leg was too much. Markus laughed out loud, and Reuben joined in with a series of tomboyish chuckles that had probably melted the heart of many a lady surfer.

“Ugh,” Jacob said in response.

Except, he didn’t say it so much as he coughed it. And when he coughed, red speckles sprayed from his mouth. The fine mist of blood seemed to hang in the air for a moment before pattering heavily to the ground.

The blade of a knife protruded through his chest, sticking out several inches.

Markus dropped his cigarette.

The knife seemed to shrink as it receded back inside Jacob’s body, pulled from the other side where a long, hairy arm emerged from the shadows. Before anyone could even move, before anyone could speak, the knife fully emerged from Jacob’s back. It was a machete, with a wicked curve to its extraordinary length. The damn thing wouldn’t have looked out of place in a jungle, slicing through thick swathes of vine.

As the machete plunged back inside Jacob, who gave another one of those coughing ugh sounds, Markus’ cigarette finally hit the ground. Miniscule cherry-red sparks bounced away from the glowing tip, scattering across the concrete.

I don’t understand. Why is this happening? All we were doing was taking a break.

They were firmly on their side of the city, the crumpled remnants of fast food wrappers littering the alley. Hell, they weren’t even that deep inside the backstreet. If Markus leaned forward a little bit and to the right, he would be able to see the colorful flashes of cars going by on the road.

A man emerged from the alley, propelling Jacob in front of him like an insect speared on a display pin. Blood pooled around the blade, a surprisingly small amount. The other stab wound was flowing, gushing, spurting with scarlet, a puddle already forming on the ground.

The man was nowhere near as tall as Jacob, but he was massively broad. Meaty, like one of those absurd hamburgers you can order at dive joints.

If you could eat this guy, you’d get more than just your name on the wall, Markus thought, incoherently, absurdly.

The stench pouring off the man was incredibly foul. He smelled like a dive bar, like layer upon layer of old, fried grease. His skin glistened with an oily shine beneath the weed like protrusions of hair covering his body. Veins bulged along the forms of every single one of his muscles, rippled with his movements.

And he was a wolf. For some reason, this last observation was what really got to Markus. A massive, greasy man with a machete was fine, but for him to be a shifter on top of all that? It was like someone had ripped apart the fabric of reality and then stitched the threads back together in new and terrifying ways.

“This is a message from the Shade Claws. Ralph is ours. And soon you will be, too.”

Markus tensed up tighter and tighter with every single word that fell from those fat, liverish lips. He started to shake his head, and his head was still shaking when he lunged at the stranger.

Faster than fast, moving like lightning, the enormous man let go of the machete he held. Jacob stayed put like his body hadn’t gotten the memo it was freed, and then he started to lean off to one side, on the verge of falling. It seemed as if the man might run, and Markus hoped for that, hoped for it with every fiber of his being because if that happened, he could attack from behind.

The man didn’t run. He reached out, as casual as could be.

Markus twisted, trying to double-back on himself to avoid that hand coming towards him with all the surety of a comet.

He didn’t move in time. Five fingers, each one the approximate width of a summer sausage, clamped down around his throat.

Choking, struggling, fear jangling like alarm bells in his mind, Markus lifted up his hands and clawed at those fingers. His body was trying to shift but it couldn’t do anything with that obstruction there, but it was still trying. He was choking himself, his body expanding, contorting, and crushing itself against that vice wrapped around his neck.

His nails tore swathes of flesh from the man’s hand, sending strips of flesh drifting away in the wind like curls of confetti tossed in the general direction of a party-goer. Blood soaked his summoned fur, streamed from the man’s torn digits. He felt the surface of his nails striking bone, and still he wasn’t free.

“You fucker!”

Lost deep inside his rage and fear, his senses already fading from the lack of air as his windpipe was crushed, Markus hardly recognized the howl that split the air. Thin and reedy and warbling, it didn’t sound like it could belong to a wolf at all. A startled bird, maybe.

Out of the corner of his fading vision, he caught a glimpse of bleach-blonde hair rapidly erupting out across the shape of a man. Reuben, attacking, shifting.

Suddenly, Markus felt himself propelled through the air. He didn’t know how to deal with what he was feeling. It was unlike anything else in the world. His thoughts couldn’t catch up with the situation, couldn’t comprehend any of this. The closest thing he could compare this to was the weightless tingling of driving down a very large hill at a speed that was just a little bit too fast.

For a fraction of a moment, he was flying.

And then he was crashing, colliding with Reuben.

Reuben yelped.

Everything stopped, blanked out.

When Markus opened his eyes again, he was looking at concrete at inch away from his face. The texture was absurdly fascinating. Bumps and crags, miniature ridges and valleys and whorls, a fingerprint of the city. There were all sorts of different shades of gray down here, which wasn’t something that he had realized before about concrete.

He knew he was in shock. Or something. He couldn’t even figure out what this state was because there was too much sensory input. None of it made sense, a white noise of emotion and sensation. The only thing that felt real at all was the rough concrete under his cheek, the sight of it before his very eyes. These were all he could understand.

Oh, and pain. Bad pain, far away. Maybe not even his. He didn’t know.

“Shit!” That reedy, terrified howling again. “Shit! Shit! Jacob! Fuck! Markus! Get up!”

Someone grabbed him by the shoulders, whirled him around so he lay on his back. Though the sun wasn’t particularly bright here in this part of the alleyway, right now it was enough to hurt his eyes. He lifted his hand to shield them. The person who had rolled him over misunderstood, grabbed his hand, and yanked him up even further.

Now Markus was staring right into Reuben’s wild, terrified gaze. “Fuck. You’re hurt, too. Goddammit!”

Reuben disappeared from his field of vision, still speaking. Markus stopped focusing on it because now that he was sitting up, he was very, very aware of the pain and where it was located.

Lifting one hand, he brought his fingers to the back of his head. At some point, maybe when he had fallen with Reuben, he had hit his head hard. There was so much blood flooding from him, sheeting down the back of his head, he couldn’t even tell where the wound was. The pain seemed to be everywhere.

Clamping his hand over as much of the back of his skull as he could, sensing that was probably the best thing he could do in this situation, he looked around. The world swam around before his very eyes, wobbling at the edges and threaded through with rainbow streaks and black speckles, before clearing again.

The alley was entirely devoid of attackers of any kind. As suddenly as he had come, sneaking up on them when they were at their most vulnerable, the shifter with the machete was gone.

Though the man who had used it was gone, the machete had stayed. It was currently still embedded in Jacob, who lay on his back where he had fallen. He stared up at the sky, features blank, fingers twitching on the ground.

His third leg had been severed. Where it was right now, Markus didn’t know. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t know how it had happened. All he knew was that blood was pumping from the massive hole in Jacob’s side where his extra limb used to be.

Reuben crouched over Jacob, the only one of them who seemed to be unharmed. His hands were slick and bloody as he alternated between pressing on the first knife wound and the site of the amputated limb. His lips moved. He was screaming into a phone, which he held trapped between his ear and his shoulder.

All of it was just too much. Dragging himself over to the nearby wall, a two-foot journey that seemed to last for a year, Markus leaned against it. He closed his eyes and waited.

For the next month after the events of this fateful day, anyone who noticed him sleeping, dozing off, or taking too long to blink would roughly nudge him to make sure he wasn’t falling prey to the concussion he incurred. It was a pretty bad concussion. The doctor who treated him for it cheerfully imparted the knowledge he hadn’t seen a noggin knocked so bad since the days he was an on-call football game medic.

At the time, Markus hadn’t really cared. He’d been adrift on a sea of pain and shock, incapable of doing much but answer the questions asked of him. There would be no lasting brain damage, he was informed, though a concussion of this magnitude would take a long time to sort itself out. If he injured himself again while it was still healing, he ran the risk of permanent damage in the form of hemorrhaging or brain swelling.

Which was fantastic news for a biker, who were prone to their fair share of falls and didn’t wear helmets as often as they should.

But that was after the fact, after all the chaos stopped. For a very long time, Markus drifted. He would learn timelines later, that it took the ambulance 10 minutes to arrive, the ride to the hospital was about half that, and that he ended up sitting in the same hospital room for over nine consecutive hours while doctors observed him to make sure he wouldn’t suddenly go downhill.

Reuben didn’t ride in the ambulance. He sustained only a few scratches here and there as a result of his fall, which was mostly due to the fact that Markus had been thrown against him so hard that his body actually wrapped around behind him and cushioned his fall. That was the theory posited by the police, agreed upon by the doctors. In fact, Markus’ concussion might not have been so bad if Reuben’s full weight hadn’t crashed down on top of him.

Reuben rode to the hospital behind the ambulance, though he didn’t stay there long because he was shuttled away to talk to the police about what happened. There was simply no keeping the cops from being involved this time. A single incident of violence against a member of a motorcycle club was something that could potentially be put to the side, but two counts of violence? With an escalating number of casualties? It was their duty to work with the cops in order to figure out why something like this was happening. Ordinary people could be in danger.

While Reuben was being interviewed by the police and Markus was being treated for his head injuries in an emergency room, Jacob was undergoing intense surgery to save his life. The machete had clipped his lung with the first stab, then punctured straight through for the second. A major vein along his side had been severed, meaning he was in danger of bleeding out; most people didn’t have an important vein there, but in Jacob’s case, it was part of his third leg. All legs have major arteries in them and this vestigial one was no exception, which was the reason it hadn’t ever been removed in the first place.

It would have killed him.

It was killing him now.

While all that was going on, Brock was being alerted that his brother had been attacked. The news was delivered to him by a nurse who had managed to wiggle the name of a relative out of Markus when he first arrived at the hospital. She was left hanging, speaking to the empty air at the other end of the line, as Brock dropped his phone on the floor and threw himself outside to his motorcycle.

It was a mess, a terrible mess. Jacob stayed in the hospital, fighting for life, in need of more surgeries. Markus was released, and he was driven home by a frantic Brock who tucked him into bed like he was a child again.

He was so, so tired. None of this felt real. He knew it had all happened, had vague memories of it all that would be strengthened in the coming days by testimonies from his friends and police officers, but right now it was like he had just been watching a movie. It had happened. Just not to him.

All the same, lying in his darkened bedroom, he cried while falling asleep. There was no shame in it, his grief and fear needing to be expressed, and later on he wouldn’t remember he’d done it. He would mistake Brock’s presence, a brotherly hand on his shoulder, as being a fragment of a dream.

He slept for 12 hours, during which Brock woke him up every hour as he had been instructed to.

The last time he woke up was on his own, though he wasn’t alone. Brock sat on the edge of the bed, just as he had on all the other times when he came in to check on Markus.

Markus looked up at him wearily. “Hey, bro. What’s up?”

“Do you feel up to a trip? Or do you want me to just tell you what happens when I come back? I’d feel better if you came with me, but it’s your choice.”

Rubbing his eyes, Markus slowly sat up. The back of his head didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had before. Sharp, gnawing agony had mellowed into a dull sort of throb that bounced around in his skull every time his heart beat. An abominable ache had settled behind his eyes and he was still so tired that he hardly knew what to do with himself.

At least his bedroom didn’t go spiraling around his head when he moved.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. His lips parted with an audible ripping sound as he broke through a gummy layer of dried saliva. His breath tasted foul. “Where are you going?”

“The memorial park. I’ve already arranged a meeting there while you were sleeping. Pretty much everyone is coming. You in or out?”

“A meeting about?”

“About what just happened and what your next step from here is going to be.”

“You mean, the next step for the club.” Markus cleared his throat, trying to sound more authoritative than he felt. “What’s our next step?”

“After the meeting, I’m going to take you to the police station. Reuben said that he gave them the exact version of things that happened. He just left out the fact that we’re shifters, that the attacker was a shifter. It’s all the truth. They just want to talk to you. Get your testimony, a second way to see things. It’s going to be important, especially if their investigation turns up proof that it was those Shadow Claws fucks that did it.” Brock lifted one hand. “I know your opinion on that. I’m just saying. It’s going to be important, okay?”

That made sense. Markus nodded. He was very, very glad that things were starting to make sense. If he had to flounder around in the dark much longer, he thought he might have started to lose his grip on reality.

“Sure, okay.”

“I can come back and get you, or you can come with me. What do you feel like?”

The one thing he wanted more in the entire world right now was to forget any of this had happened. He wanted to go back to bed, to pull the covers up over his head and hide from everything.

Instead, he said, “I’ll go with you. Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”

“Sure.” Brock placed his hand on his shoulder, gave him a gentle squeeze. “You take all the time you need. The meeting isn’t going to go anywhere.”

Markus nodded. He hesitated for a second, then gave in to his own desires. If there was ever a time when he was expected to depend on other people, it was right now. “Would you maybe make some coffee while I get ready? Toast? Something?”

Brock also nodded and repeated, “Sure, buddy. Anything you need, I’ll get it for you.”

I don’t think that’s entirely true. Not anything.

Brock patted him on the shoulder, then suddenly leaned in and wrapped both of his arms around Markus. He pressed his cheek gently against Markus’s. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispered. “It could have been so much worse. You could have ended up…”

Like Pockets, an empty husk of his former self.

Like Jacob, in critical condition.

Markus reached around with one arm and hugged onto his brother, gripping him as tightly as he could. “I know. I’m okay. It’s okay.”

“God, I sure hope so.”

Brock left and within a few seconds, the distinctive scent of coffee filtered down the hallway and into the bedroom. Taking this as a sign that he should probably get moving, Markus pushed down on the mattress and twisted around so he could dangle his legs off the edge. He slid down and then stood up, reaching out to hold onto the wall for balance.

He took an experimental step, and then another. His legs held, and he didn’t feel like he was about to fall over, so he let go off the wall and headed over to his dresser. He pulled out a handful of fresh clothes, grimacing a little as the soft fabric reminded him what he was wearing was crusted with sweat and blood.

After hopping in the shower—or gingerly stepping in—he came out and dressed again. There wasn’t much he could do for his hair right now since there was no way in hell that he was going to get water on the tender stitches.

Coffee and toast slathered with a liberal amount of peanut butter awaited him when he finally came out to the kitchen. Brock sat at the table, a slice of his own sitting on a plate in front of him. A single bite had been taken from the toast and that was all.

Having something in his stomach helped Markus start to feel like an actual person again. The beginning surge of sourness and nausea rapidly faded, letting strength flood through his limbs.

When he had finished, Brock looked up as if he’d been just waiting for this moment. “We ready to go?”

“Yeah. My shoes are by the front door.”

Brock ended up needing to tie Markus’ laces for him, since bending over to do it himself made him feel dizzy. Once more, Markus was struck by the sensation he had been reduced to the level of a child.

It wasn’t a particularly bad feeling, either. It was nice to have someone who cared so much about him.

Destiny cared about me.

He shoved that thought away. That was way too heavy of a subject to add on top of everything else right now.

They took the car that Brock owned, rather than either motorcycle. The doctors had said it would be for the best if he didn’t get jostled around a lot for a while.

Brock drove slowly, cruising easily down the streets.

William Bartram Memorial Park was a peaceful, quiet place composed mainly of stretches of green grass and wandering trails. Stands of beautiful, thriving trees wrapped around most of the area, giving the illusion that the park wasn’t in the middle of a city.

The meeting place was near a modern art sculpture deep inside the park, a green twist of coils that looked like a cross between a person, a flamingo, and a DNA helix.

By the time Markus came within sight of the sculpture, he was already exhausted. Walking from one end of his bedroom to the next had been a manageable task. This felt like a journey across the barren plans of Antarctica. He would die out here and grass would grow up around his deceased form and people would walk by him without ever knowing that he was there.

Ridiculous, exhausted thoughts.

Standing around the sculpture was an enormous cluster of burly men. They were mostly alpha wolves, and the sight of them would have sent paroxysms of fear straight through the heart of any parent who saw them. In fact, the presence of so many motorcycles in the parking lots at the various park entrances would cause many people to turn around and reconsider their plans for the day. Bikers were almost like cops, in that regard. They seemed to exist on a completely different plain of humanity, one which the average person didn’t want to cross unless they absolutely had to.

However, there were also a small amount of betas and an omega here and there. Women were also in attendance, though they were far outnumbered by the men.

Markus hadn’t really ever paid much attention to these proportions before. Seeing them now, laid out in front of him in a smaller scale, it made him wonder if women might not be the smarter of the sexes.

There were already about 25 bikers standing around the sculpture, with more arriving all the time. A few of them started to notice that Brock had arrived and was heading in their direction. Word spread. Heads started turning in a spreading ripple of motion, and then everyone was staring expectantly at their leader and his wobbly brother.

Feeling self-conscious, and also just plain wiped out, Markus let himself fall slightly behind Brock. His brother’s solid bulk mostly hid him from sight, shielding him from those prying eyes, if only for the time being.

When he was close enough to speak without having to shout, Brock announced, “We’ll get started in ten minutes. No one bother Markus. He has had an extremely rough time. You’ll learn why when the meeting starts.”

A few impatient grumbles spread through the gathered crowd, rapidly turning into sighs of consent. Eyes filled with hungry curiosity honed in on Markus, spearing through him even as he tried to hide. He was a sheep amongst wolves, and they wanted to know what he was all about.

Brock turned, ignoring all the stares, the shouts of greeting from bikers who were still arriving on the scene. He reached out one hand to Markus, where it hesitated in the air like a bird frozen to death in mid-flight. “There’s a bench nearby. You can sit there.”

“And miss the meeting?” Markus protested. He knew he would still be able to hear. He could see the damn bench from here. He didn’t want to just hear, however. He wanted to see, to be part of this. There were three people in all of this chaos who had been the most involved and he was one of them. He deserved to be included.

“I’ll arrange it so you’re still in the mix,” Brock promised. His eyes glistened with a rare moment of understanding. “I promise.”

Even though he didn’t really want to agree to this, Markus was nevertheless aware of the fact he had no choice. Standing while waiting for the meeting to start, much less standing during the entire meeting itself, wasn’t an option right now. He could feel it, an uncertainty deep in his bones, weakening his limbs, his strength, his resolve.

“Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll go to the bench. But I don’t need you to walk me there like I’m an old lady crossing the street.”

He started off without waiting for a response. He wasn’t moving particularly fast, and Brock could have easily replied or caught up to him. The pack leader did nothing of the sort, for which Markus was thankful. He didn’t want to have to deal with any of this. The less things that happened to bother him, the better.

The bench Brock pointed out was located on the path that wove past the sculpture, about 30 feet away. Setting his sights on his destination, Markus lurched towards it. Wolves who stood in his way stepped back the moment he came near, like they thought his injuries might be catching. He ignored them and focused grimly on putting one foot in front of the other. His head throbbed. Black specks, much too familiar by now, fluttered around at the corners of his vision.

Just as he was nearing his limit, on the verge of sitting down in the grass and refusing to move another inch, he finally reached the bench. Grabbing onto the back of it with both hands, he steadied himself. Still holding on, he worked his way around to the front of it and then dropped down hard on the seat.

The dull pain in the back of his head spiked up to an ungodly, horrifying level as he thudded down on his ass. His teeth clicked together and he lurched forward, grabbing at his face with both hands. A low, wounded sound pulled up from his throat.

Let me die. Let this have killed me. Please. For fuck’s sake. I don’t want to deal with this for even another second.

The seconds passed, because seconds always did. Time staggered onward in leaps and jerks. The abominable pain in the back of his head finally faded away, enough for him to pick his head up from his hands and look around.

No one paid any attention to him at all. They weren’t even looking at him now. He was invisible to them.

He had been having quite a few intrusive thoughts lately, thoughts which lurched up out of nowhere as if summoned by a brain malfunction. He had one of these thoughts again while sitting miserably on that bench, waiting for the meeting to start.

He thought that Destiny would have come over to check on him. Destiny would have made sure he was okay.

The low murmur of curious wolves ended suddenly as Brock raised his voice to be heard. Markus tuned in for a moment, long enough to realize Brock wasn’t saying the usual meeting words, before tuning out again as a result of sheer embarrassment. To have accommodations be made for him like this felt awful. He should have been better, more capable.

He should have tried harder. He should have fought better.

He should have killed that huge wolf bastard.

As per Brock’s instructions, the gathered bikers made their way over to the bench where Markus sat. The first few who arrived sat down beside him, squeezing their bulky bodies together. Once the length of the bench was taken up, the rest of the wolves started to line up.

The usual meeting formation was a ring, formed around Brock or whoever was speaking. This ring would be big enough to fit as many wolves as possible in the first layer, while also being small enough so Brock could speak at a normal volume. Other rings would form around the first, with wolves alternating their spacing so everyone could see their pack leader without difficulty.

This whole process took less than two minutes. At the end of it, the rings around Brock were the same as always, just in a different location and with a bench to break up the pattern.

At least there were other wolves sitting with him. That detail helped Markus not to feel too terrible. If he had been isolated, all alone, part of an enormous gap, he didn’t know how he would have handled that.

Brock stood in the middle of the rings, looking incredibly natural and at ease. He was a solid man, a firm man, bothered by very little. Sometimes, Markus got the impression his older brother was nothing but a moving statue.

“You’re all wondering why we’re having this meeting so suddenly,” Brock began. His voice was firm and steady, almost a monotone. Its level, unbroken cadence swept across the gathered bikers, silencing the few random snippets of conversation that had still been going on.

When Brock spoke, everyone listened.

“You want to know the reason. I’ll tell you the reason. This is a matter of security and emergency. I couldn’t just wait to see how bad it was going to get. I didn’t stop to see if there were going to be more incidents. There might not be. But logic tells me that there damn sure will be. I hope to hell that I’m wrong, but if I’m not, all of you need to be prepared.”

Brock occasionally turned as he spoke, making sure no one was having to look at his back for too long. When his gaze swept across the crowd, it never really landed on anyone in particular. Yet, everyone always felt as if they were being personally addressed.

“There has been another attack on us.”

He went on to recount the events as he knew them, as he had learned from Reuben and the doctors and police officers he had undoubtedly already spoken to while Markus was sleeping the fitful sleep of the concussed. Listening to his brother speak of the things that had happened with such cold, impassive clarity, Markus once again had to struggle with feeling disconnected. He could be listening to someone discussing the plot of a movie right now, sharing the facts of an interesting article they read in the newspaper.

As Brock shared what had happened, the surrounding bikers let out occasional murmurs of sympathy or rage or disgust. Some of them looked at Markus with renewed interest. He wasn’t sure if this was preferable to being ignored or not.

“The only people who could possibly be doing this are the members of Shadow Claws. They are either acting under the direction of their leader, or without his knowledge but in his stead. There can be no other culprit.”

The wolves snarled in response. The name of the enemy, combined with such a declaration, had their blood up in an instant. Whether or not what Brock said was true, they believed him.

“These attacks are too personal. They are too violent, too brutal. As you can recall, a knife belonging to none other than Destiny North was found at the location where Pockets was ambushed. This time, the attacker had a message he shared. ‘This is a message from Shadow Claws. Ralphie is ours, and so are you.’”

Markus sat up a little. Those words were familiar, but they were also incorrect.

“That’s not what he said.”

He spoke the words before he even realized he’d opened his mouth to do so. Dozens of pairs of fierce eyes slashed through the air in his direction, pinning him to the bench.

No one was looking at Brock. For just a moment, the stony certainty of his face cracked in half to allow a core of pure doubt and confusion to shine through. Then the fissure was gone.

But Markus had seen it, and now he knew the truth. His confident brother, his steady leader, knew as little about this as everyone else.

“Of course it is,” Brock said. His voice wavered just the slightest. Markus heard it quite distinctly. Maybe a handful of others did, though they dismissed it immediately as a trick of the wind or something like that. Only a person who had spent endless years around Brock with the steady exposure of a family member could possibly have known how serious that little tremble was. “Reuben said as much. He swore to me that those were the exact words used by the attacker. You’re just confused, Markus.”

It was the exact message, just not the right words. There was a world of difference between those two things, filling Markus with an influx of doubt he felt might be just as big—or perhaps even bigger—than the quantity Brock struggled to hide.

If he had felt better, he would have kept speaking, insisting upon the fact that he was right. Except, maybe that wouldn’t have mattered a single bit. Maybe no one would have believed his word over the word of their strong, beloved leader.

“This is a declaration of war, as far as I’m concerned. Shadow Claws has always had it out for us. They’ve always skulked in the dark. It’s in their goddamn name. They want to sink their claws into what’s ours, drag it right out from underneath our noses. They have Ralphie. They have the baby. Who knows what else they’ll take from us?”

More snarling, more growling. Wolves, whipped into a fury, feeding off each other’s angers and emotions. The air was thick with a foul brew of emotions which all those in attendance felt as if it was their very own feelings.

“I’ll tell you what they’ll take from us! Everything! Our bikes. Our territory. Our members. Our freedom! They will enslave us!” Saliva sprayed from Brock’s lips with this last exclamation, blurring the words together in a drunken slur. Even if it was difficult to understand him, the intention was still clear. “We are two packs for a reason. We will never be one again, not as long as they think they can rule us. So, if they want a war, we’ll give it to them!”

Snarls burst out into howls, a crescendo of sound. The wolves sounded now like they were on the trail of some limping, bleeding morsel that would soon be theirs to destroy as they saw fit.

“We won’t attack back. Not yet. That’s exactly what they want, to wear down our numbers until we’re too weak to resist. No, we won’t give them that satisfaction. We’re going to bide our time, let them wear themselves down in their efforts. You can expect more gatherings in the future as I make plans.”

“Until then, we need some new rules. We will have daily patrols along the border between our territories. Our scent will obliterate theirs, a sign of what’s to come.

“Anyone who works or lives on the west end must make new plans or else be at risk of being cast out of our pack. If you’re going to be loyal, you’re going to be loyal all the way. We are east end wolves, from now until the day that this is all over.”

No one was possibly going to agree to that, were they? It was just absurd to think that people were going to uproot their entire lives just because one person told them to do it. Bikers they might be, but there was more to a biker’s existence than motorcycles.

Brock couldn’t honestly expect so many of his people to move to new houses, new apartments, just because he said so. They weren’t going to drag their children and spouses with them. They weren’t going to quit their jobs, steady and temporary alike, and re enter into the job market.

Were they?

Right now, that seemed like a very real possibility. Everyone was yelling, crying out some sort of phrase over and over that Markus couldn’t exactly make sense of. They pumped their fists in the air, stomped their feet, declared brutal war on Shadow Claws.

When they went home and calmed down, shedding the mob mindset of the crowd, they would see sense. When they started to make plans, they would realize how stupid this all was.

Wouldn’t they?

“Stop.”

For the second time this meeting, Markus found himself speaking without meaning to. His voice was thin and small compared to the chaos of the angry bikers and they didn’t notice him.

Reaching behind himself, he pushed against the back of the bench and tried to stand. His head gave an enormous throb, leeching some of the strength away from his legs so he just sat back down again. He contemplated giving up and staying down, since he was clearly in no condition to be doing much of anything. He should do exactly what Brock wanted of him, which was for him to sit quiet and look pathetic so people would feel sorry for him and be more likely to listen to the ludicrous plans being tossed in their direction. Then, he would go to the police and say what Brock wanted him to say.

For once in his fucking life, he needed to listen to someone who knew better.

Anger sparked inside him, and he shoved hard against the bench, lurching up to his feet. A snarl of frustration curved on his lips. He could feel how ugly the expression he made was, how it didn’t sit right on his face.

“Stop,” he said again, staring hard across the grass at Brock.

Brock just looked at him, his lips pressing together into a thin, harsh line. Warning glistened behind his eyes. “Are you okay, Mark? Do you need to lie down?”

“No, bro. I don’t need to lie down. And I don’t need to leave. You’re the one who needs to do something. You need to listen to me! This didn’t happen because of Shadow Claws. Reuben got the message wrong.”

Reuben wasn’t in attendance, for which Markus was thankful. The surfer had an ego, and his insistence that he was right wouldn’t help right now.

Then again, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. The mob mindset didn’t allow for much in the way of free thinking. The gathered bikers were feeding off each other, whether they knew it or not. It was a conga line of anger, circling endlessly on itself.

“You’re confused.” Brock repeated the same thing as before, this time stressing each syllable.

Markus ignored the message his brother was trying to send him. The others were paying attention to their conversation now, listening in. If he was going to convince them to reconsider, he would have to be very careful about it. “I don’t think this is something the Shadow Claws would do. It’s not like them. And I was there. I was attacked, too. Don’t you think I might know what I’m talking about?”

A few seconds of silence passed, during which no one spoke at all. Then, out of nowhere, a voice rose up like a sharp gunshot through the quiet.

“I believe him.”

Everyone turned to look in the direction of the speaker. No one could have been more astonished than Markus himself. He hadn’t expected much in the way of support at all, much less from this person specifically.

The wolf who had spoken was an incredibly opinionated, stubborn, and unpopular alpha named Isaac Reed. No one knew exactly what made Isaac tick, or what sent him into a fury. He was a timebomb, set to a countdown schedule no one had ever managed to figure out. He mostly kept to himself and said that he only stayed with the pack so he wouldn’t be on his own if trouble ever came his way; he said “if” but most people knew this was really a factor of “when”, so they kept their distance from him. If anyone could be a lone wolf while still being part of a group, it was Isaac.

Markus hadn’t ever spoken to the alpha before. Like everyone else, he went out of his way to avoid contact with the guy. And now, Isaac was voicing in favor of him.

Brock looked and sounded absolutely stunned, like he’d been brutally shoved off his pedestal by an opponent he hadn’t seem coming.

And maybe that’s exactly what happened.

“What are you saying, Isaac? You can’t possibly believe him. He has no proof!” Brock abruptly placed his fist to his heart, an awkward sort of salute, the beginning of a coming declaration. “All of you know that he’s my brother. And I love him to death. But he was there. He was attacked. He hit his head. He has a concussion. He’s in shock. There’s no way we can trust what he’s saying until more time has gone by.”

At which point, Markus’ testimony still wouldn’t matter because everyone else would already be so deep into Brock’s plans they wouldn’t be able to walk out. They would be like all the animals who had wandered into tar pits in the distant past, fleeing from predators only to find themselves in an even worse place than before. Perhaps it was prophetic that so many of those animals that had been uncovered were none other than a species of wolf. Stubborn, determined creatures, all the way to the end.

Isaac shrugged. He looked like a shaking volcano, about to blow its lid. “Maybe listen to what he has to say before you decide that.”

Brock looked back and forth from alpha and omega, his eyes narrowing. He stopped and stood stock-still, glaring hard at Markus. “Then, get on with it, brother. You and I have other places to be today.”

His words invited honesty, but his eyes warned for Markus to be careful of what he said, telling him not to cause more of a stir than he already had.

Clenching his fists down by his side, Markus took comfort from the sharp sting of his nails digging into his palms. It was nice to know he still had a whole entire body, what with all his attention being focused upon his head these past hours. “When we were attacked, it was only by one wolf. It wasn’t this chaotic ambush where everything all blurred together. It was just one guy. I swear to you that I didn’t recognize him by sight or scent. He didn’t belong to Shadow Claws.”

“If Reuben swears to me and you discount his testimony, how am I supposed to believe you when you do the same?” Brock’s voice was incredibly, impossibly gentle.

With a start, Markus realized this wasn’t all for show. Brock believed everything he was spewing out to the crowd. He couldn’t understand, perhaps didn’t even have enough of an imagination to be able to try.

“And,” Brock continued, “you don’t know everyone in SC. You shouldn’t. It’s not your pack. So, you can’t be blamed for not recognizing that the attacker was one of theirs. It’s not your fault.”

“Destiny never would have done something like this! He never would have allowed it!” Markus spread his arms out wide. Words kept tumbling from his mouth. It had gotten to the point that he was hardly aware of what he was saying until it had already been said. “And he would have known that something was about to happen. He would have put a stop to it or warned us. He’s not cruel.”

Isaac moved. The crowd of wolves had long since stirred out of their perfect formation, becoming a jumbled and twisted mass. He parted them with his bulk and his presence, coming to stand right at Markus’s side. “I wasn’t part of this group until recently, but I’ve heard the stories. Markus and Destiny used to be a couple. If there’s anyone in this world who could possibly understand what Destiny might or might not do, it’s Markus.”

Glancing sideways, Markus saw Isaac looking at him. Markus dipped his head down slightly, offering his silent thanks and appreciation. Isaac did the same thing in response. His eyes seemed to hold some inexplicable meaning Markus couldn’t quite figure out.

He’s such a weird wolf. I don’t know if anyone is ever going to be able to understand him.

“Maybe that was true, but the last time my brother and that traitor spoke was over five years ago. That’s a lot of time for people to change.”

Here was the point where Markus could have said that also wasn’t true, but as he was opening his mouth to do just that, Isaac nudged against his elbow. The alpha gave a very slight shake of the head.

Worn out, dispirited, Markus did what Isaac seemed to be hinting at. He shut his mouth and sat back down.

Isaac sat on the bench with him, the only one now to be doing such a thing. Brock waved his arms, gesturing to his wolves, gathering them all back into orderly fashion so he could finish laying out his ridiculous rules. He spoke loudly and confidently, not that Markus heard a single word.

Looking straight forward as if he was paying attention, Isaac muttered, “Sometimes, the only thing you can do is nothing.”

Markus stared down at his hands, which were dangling between his knees. “You’re saying I should just let bad things happen to innocent people.”

“But,” Isaac continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “that doesn’t mean you should never do anything.”

It took a moment for Markus’ addled brain to figure out how all the double negatives in that sentence worked out. “Why are you so weird, Isaac?”

Isaac just shrugged. “I did my nothing. Now I’m waiting for my something.”

That wasn’t exactly an answer, yet it also seemed to Markus that in a few sentences he had been given more information on Isaac than anyone else would ever have.

And Markus settled in to do his nothing, waiting for his chance to act.