Chapter 68: Chapter 68

Atticus

The weight of the sword in his hand was nice, Atticus thought, swinging it in time with his long strides. A light wind caught his hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, revelling in the feel of sunlight on his face.

Even though he’d been walking for what felt like forever, nothing could bring down his mood. How long had he been waiting for this moment? If this walk felt like forever, then he had been waiting an eternity to see his beloved again. Beloved! He snorted at the idea of it, though it settled like a vice around his traitorous heart.

Even here, even now, he could not admit the depth of his feelings – not even to himself. He gripped the hilt of the sword tighter, peering into the distance in the hope of seeing some sign of the Red Ripper pack. Or, better still, some sign of Lily.

Lily. Her name felt like a caress, fluttering through his body until he was sure his muscles were melting around his bones. There was a hole in his chest, and today he would fill it.

If only he could find the damn pack house.

Atticus must have circled their territory over and over. Surely it was not so large as to have taken him – he looked up at the sun’s position, not that he trusted it – at least three hours?

Elijah could have woken up by now. His heart thundered, his fear twisting down into his stomach. He should have thrown him out through the veil, not left him there. But how could he have known that their pack house would be impossible to find?

He stared up at the sun again, squinting until the world became a blaze of too-bright white light. Atticus wished he’d kicked him harder. With a sigh, he wished that he’d put Elijah’s own blade through his heart. At least that way he would have been assured that his competition was well and truly out of the game. He’d hoped to be out of here with Lily under his arm by now. Atticus glanced back, clutching the sword tighter. Should he go back for the other Alpha before he claimed his prize?

Atticus shook himself and put more strength into his steps. No. He had made his choice. If Elijah had awoken – and the chance of that happening was slim, the beating he’d given him had more than made sure of that – he too would surely end up lost in this wasteland. Atticus smiled to himself, lifting the sword in victory. He was the Alpha of the Blood Moon pack. Alpha Whatever of the Nothing pack had no chance. Not against him.

Then Atticus saw a crop of dead flowers. Their stems were a fresh, bright green, but their petals had wilted and withered until he could not tell what colour they had been before. Flowers were a change from the endless rolling fields he’d spent the better part of the morning marching through, so he went to them with an eagerness he had not displayed since he had been a child.

Save for Lily’s eighteenth birthday, a dark part of his mind whispered snidely. Save for when you had a chance at love – before you ruined it all.

“I won’t make the same mistake again,” he growled. It wound around him like a vine, like a vow, holding him to his oath as – at last – Red Ripper’s pack house came into view.

It rose above the other buildings, surrounded in a long rectangle by smaller wooden cabins and what Atticus presumed were training grounds, which stretched the breadth of the entire small town. He began an unhurried stroll towards it, but quickly thought better of his arrogance and settled into a steady jog. Just in case. Elijah could be lurking or, worse still, any one of Red Ripper’s wolves. They could shift at will; Atticus had no such advantage. Fresh anger coiled in his belly and he held it there, feeding the flames as he imagined all the ways he would make them and Alpha Nobody suffer for their hands in Lily’s fate.

He would need to be every inch the Alpha he knew he was if he was going to negotiate his mate’s freedom. They would drive a hard bargain – but so could he.

Atticus slowed as he reached the nearest building. It was basic but, admittedly, pretty, not that he cared for such things; the flowers surrounding it were in full bloom and trailing ivy climbed up the stacked logs that made up its walls and roof. He fell into a crouch, darting behind it on a side that had no window. He held his breath, listening for any sound of movement. It was the middle of the day; Atticus could only hope that Red Ripper took their lunch at noon.

The tell-tale sounds of clinking cutlery and plates made him grin. He flexed his muscles and wondered if he would have made a good spy in another life. The answer, he was sure, was yes. After all, he had mastered everything he had ever tried. Save for Lily, that traitorous little voice in the back of his head whispered again. He smacked his palm against his temple, his brows pulling down at the throb of pain.

That voice needed to be dislodged. Doubting himself and his past choices would do him no good here. Atticus needed to swagger into Red Ripper’s territory with his head held high – not cowed as Elijah would be.

With the memory of booting Alpha Nothing in the ribs, hard, Atticus grinned. In a flurry of motion he propelled himself to the next house and, after a quick look in all directions, to the next one again.

Voices floated on the breeze. Atticus stilled, pressing his back flat against the wall behind him.

“They need to decide soon.”

“The whole point was that we didn’t have one,” said another, more nasal voice.

“Well, that isn’t working, is it?” a third person snapped.

Atticus peered out around the corner of the house. His foot tangled in a length of ivy and he muttered a curse beneath his breath, holding it there until the sounds of their footsteps had passed.

“We all know it will end up being Apollo,” one of them said distantly. Atticus tucked the name away for safekeeping. It could come in handy when he was asserting his dominance; so little was known about the Red Ripper rogues that any information, no matter how small, could be played up.

He tried to remember everything his spies and scouts had told him, but Atticus could barely think beyond the desperate need to get to Lily. He stepped out unthinkingly, racing along to the next house without checking for anyone watching him. His heart beat out a rhythm in his chest; it hypnotised him, pressing his legs to stumble forwards, over and over, until he found her. His beloved. His mate.

“The person I need to retrieve so that I stop losing my wits,” he grumbled to himself. “She is nothing more to me than that.” He knew it was a lie, but it felt good to say it out loud. It pressed the imagined reality more firmly into his head, though his heart remained stubborn as it tugged him home to her.

“Losing your wits, are you?” cut in a cheerful voice.

Atticus glanced around, his eyes narrowing.

A man a good head and a half shorter than him stepped off the pathway ringing the pack house. He looked young, in his early twenties at most, and his dark blonde bun and glasses made him seem like a bookish sort – not the kind of warrior Atticus had expected to meet here. He gave a jolly little wave, as if this were nothing more than a friendly chat between neighbours. Hope stabbed a knife into Atticus’s heart. Had he got away with it? Would this man think him another nameless, faceless part of the Red Ripper pack?

He felt oddly flustered as the man approached him. “Not exactly,” he said, not taking the step towards him that he felt was expected. His grip on the sword’s hilt became white-knuckled.

The man held out a hand. “Damien Hunt. Are you a new recruit? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Atticus stared at his outstretched palm like it would give him a disease. “No, I don’t think we have.”

Before the man could respond Atticus drew back the sword and stabbed him through the heart. As Damien collapsed he rolled his neck and flexed his muscles. That was all he’d needed, he realised. A little bit of murder to soothe his aching heart.

Smiling to himself, he weighed the sword in his hand. How good of Alpha Nobody to bring it for him. With one final glance at Damien Hunt, who now lay lifeless and bloody upon the manicured path, Atticus stepped out into the open and held the sword high. Blood inched down it, dripping warmly down his wrist.

Killing people seemed a lot easier than avoiding them. With a new spring in his step, Atticus walked with his head held high straight towards the doors to the pack house.

* * *

For werewolves that could shift at will, Atticus had had no problem in racking up a death toll of fifteen. He wiped blood from his hands and smiled, satisfaction curling up his spine. Red Ripper was made up of the bottom-feeders that had got nowhere in their own packs, he reminded himself as he jogged up the steps to the pack house. He barely spared it a glance as he kicked down the front door and stood in the gaping hole it left behind.

“Who are you?” The voice was hard as steel. Atticus locked eyes with a tall, bulky man whose auburn hair shone wetly, almost like blood, in the gossamer sunlight. Black eyes crinkled at their edges as he smirked.

“Alpha Atticus Alvarn Alvaro Andras,” he drawled, wiping the sword against the thigh of his trousers. Not once did he break eye contact. “And you are going to take me to your Alpha.”

“I could be the Alpha,” said the man, his smirk pulling into a lopsided grin. Atticus struggled not to roll his eyes – or, a better idea, he thought, would be to run him through.

“You aren’t,” he replied flatly. “I demand an audience with him. Now.”

For the first time, the man looked unnerved. He tried to hide it behind a puffed-up chest and a wide stance, but Atticus knew the tremor of fear in his chin and the almost imperceptible widening of his dark eyes. That was what he ate for breakfast.

Being near Lily, so close to the goal he’d held close for the last month, longer, even, was bringing him back to life. His knuckles were split and bloody. His boots were covered in dirt and gore. This was who he was – and he would never back down again.

“Thostle,” he called sharply, breaking his locked gaze to glance out of the wide hallway they stood in.

“What, Affande?” snapped a male voice, the owner of which remained out of sight.

Atticus scraped the tip of the sword across the floor. It scored the wood, a load groan echoing against the walls.

“He wants to see the Alpha,” hissed the man in front of Atticus. Affande, he told himself, slotting that into his memory along with everything else he’d heard and seen so far.

“Who does?” Thostle, whoever he was, sounded fed up. “He clearly doesn’t know much about our pack, then–”

“Just get out here!”

For someone that carried himself like a king, Affande was easily broken. Atticus smirked.

Thostle dragged himself out from behind a short wall, scrubbing a hand through curly blonde hair and narrowing his eyes at Affande as he strode out. Did everyone here walk around like they owned the place? Not that it mattered. Soon, Atticus would make them see what it meant to be a wolf.

Atticus thought on his feet. Now was a good chance to get the upper hand. His lip curled. “Just take me to Apollo and be done with it. You don’t need back-up for that. Surely?” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering disdainfully on them both. Now he just had to cross his fingers that what he’d heard earlier meant what he thought it did.

Thostle sighed. “I’ll take you to them both.”

Atticus nodded, lifting his sword as he did so. The light glinted off its metal, rubies dripping off it and landing softly on the floorboards. He smirked at Affande, pure arrogance and hatred rolling off him in waves, before following Thostle down the hall.

Atticus flexed his muscles and held the sword up to his face. Green eyes met his, emblazoned in the steel. A single drop of blood cut through his pupil, marring his handsome features. He smiled, making sure to bare his teeth.

It was time to get his mate back.

* * *

Atticus was almost about to go on another killing spree just to sedate his boredom when two men, both packed with muscle and holding themselves like royalty, walked into the room that Thostle had left him in.

The room was plain and practical, all exposed wooden beams with sunlight streaming in through wide windows. Dust motes spun through the slants of golden light. There were chairs stacked in a corner, all intricately carved from the same wood the buildings were made from. Atticus chose to stand.

Besides, he thought, the most interesting part of the room was an art piece he himself had created.

Thostle now lay half-dead at his feet, choking on his own blood. Atticus kicked him every now and then for his own amusement. He’d met the sharp end of Alpha Nobody’s sword when he’d returned from fetching his Alpha (or was it Alphas? Atticus had wondered) and told Atticus they would be on their way shortly.

“Tell me their names,” Atticus had growled, his voice rumbling low in his chest. He’d placed the sword over Thostle’s throat and dug it in, just a little, as he’d awaited his answer. “Now.”

“Apollo and Morvand,” he’d said, looking down at the blade without a care in the world. Atticus had stabbed him for his insolence.

One of the men pushed in front of the other. He was the bigger of the two, albeit only slightly. Blue eyes, youthful and mean, narrowed at the sight of Thostle on the floor like he was an inconvenience. He clicked his fingers and said to nobody in particular, “Fetch the witch.”

The other man scowled. This one was strange looking, in that his brawn did not suit his face shape. Had Atticus seen just his head, he would have assumed that it sat atop a body so skinny it was almost frail. He shuddered at the thought, staring rudely – not that he cared – at his sharp nose and feathered black hair. As the dark-haired man brought his bony fingers to a point beneath his chin, he said, “Let him die. If he is too weak to fight his own battles then he is of no further use to us.”

Atticus jerked his chin up. “I like your attitude,” he said, stepping forward.

They both looked at him with disdain. Atticus bristled.

“Who are you?” asked the blue-eyed, brown-haired one. His bottom lip jutted out; Atticus couldn’t put his finger on what, but something about it felt mocking.

He rolled his eyes. “I am Alpha Atticus of the Blood Moon pack. And you have something of mine.”

“What – oh.” He smiled slowly, saccharine sweetness pooling in his gaze. “The girl.”

“Yes, the girl,” snapped Atticus. His temper flared, but these were not the dog’s-bodies roaming the grounds. These two would put up a fight if he killed them and, when he did – he had no qualms about that – he would have no idea where to find Lily. They had magic he did not understand on their side. They could have enchantments hiding her, starving her, holding her in some pocket universe for eternity…

He growled. His hand tightened on the sword. He had to calm down. Angry people were terrible negotiators. They wore they heart on their sleeve and made it too easy for their opponent to read their intentions. Atticus was above rage; he was too smart to fall into its trap.

“Apollo,” said the brown-haired man, nodding sharply.

“Morvand,” said the other.

“I want the girl. Lily Cole,” he added, because who knew how many girls they had locked away? He didn’t care about freeing the others; he only wanted her. They could do as they pleased with the rest. “Let’s make this quick. What do you want in return?”

Apollo drummed his fingers on his thigh. His eyes were distant in a way that suggested he was only pretending to think about what he desired. Then he scratched at the stubble covering his hard jaw.

On the floor between them, Thostle groaned.

“The Blood Moon pack?” said Morvand, his crow-like face scrunching up so that the dorsal hump on his nose became even more pronounced. “There was a time when you were a threat to us. Now, however…”

In one swift movement Atticus stepped over Thostle’s prone body and held the sword to Morvand’s bobbing throat. “I am the most powerful Alpha in Eldda,” he said, his voice deadly quiet.

“I suppose that is true,” hummed Apollo. “As our pack has no Alpha.” Then he shrugged at Morvand before turning back to Atticus. “How many of our number have you killed today?”

“I lost count.” Atticus pushed the blade closer to Morvand’s neck. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough that the pressure kept his focus on the sword rather than elsewhere. He seemed like the brains and Apollo seemed like the brawn of this operation. Despite Morvand’s bulging muscles, Atticus still could not see him as anything other than a scrawny man who looked all too much like a crow.

Neither of them seemed remotely bothered by Atticus’s bold claim or the blade at Morvand’s throat.

“Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement,” said Morvand.

“The girl is of great use to us.” Apollo smirked. “What can you, almighty Alpha, offer us in return?”

Atticus stamped down his surging fury. The arrogance rolled off Apollo in waves and he could not bear to imagine what this psychopath had down to his mate. She was no fighter; she would have taken whatever they’d doled out lying down.

Part of him still couldn’t believe he’d come all this way for her. But here he was, and he wasn’t going to back down now.

“My pack are the only ones who present a threat to you,” Atticus said, pulling himself up to his full height and letting the sword drop. “We have been backed into a corner.” He smiled, baring his teeth. “You and I both know that only makes wolves more vicious.”

Morvand began to pace back and forth across the room now that his neck was less likely to be slit. “That does not tell us what you can offer us.” His eyes narrowed. “You were the one that wanted to make this quick, Atticus.”

“Alpha Atticus,” he corrected. He wanted to roar it, to destroy these idiots where they stood. But he had to keep the upper hand, so he inspected his nails to show just how unbothered he was.

“Right.” Morvand cleared his throat.

Atticus cracked his knuckles. “There are some that still doubt Red Ripper. The Blood Moon pack has the reputation you crave.” He smiled triumphantly, sure that he had already won.

He would do anything for Lily – and he was about to prove it.

“What do you propose?” asked Morvand. Apollo stepped closer, his blue eyes alight. This, they all knew, was where it got good.

Atticus let the sword drop to the floor.

And then he made his offer.

* * *

“The girl is yours,” purred Morvand. “I shall take you to her.”