Page 12 of Moon Destiny

“It’s all right,” Hugh murmured. He dropped his hand from my nape and faced me, his green eyes several shades lighter than they’d been in the house. They were a predator’s eyes.

I should be afraid. The thought racketed around my brain, some long-buried primitive instinct urging me to run. But his eyes were also full of anguish, and another instinct—one I couldn’t begin to understand—compelled me to stay right where I was. In fact, I was suddenly aware that nothing could make me leave his side.

“We have to use a pyre,” he said while I silently wondered what the hell was wrong with me. “We can’t risk the humans getting their hands on our DNA.”

Right. I’d watched enough true crime shows for that to make sense. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I nodded to let him know I understood.

He looked at something beyond my shoulder. “Stay with Dylan.” Before I could reply, he was striding away and Dylan was next to me. The moonlight turned his hair to burnished gold.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I opened my mouth to say “yes” but ended up blurting, “Not in any way.”

His brown eyes were kind. “Exactly what I’d expect given the circumstances,” he said in a soft southern drawl that was like a band-aid on my frazzled nerves. The other werewolves moved around us, forming a half circle in front of the pyre. He lowered his voice even more. “Everyone is unsettled because of the attack. Things will calm down, I promise. And then you’ll feel more at home.”

My home was in Seattle, where I’d be returning as soon as possible. I frowned, ready to tell him as much, but he looked up as Hugh and a group of men moved in front of the pyre. The men fanned out, two on each side of him. Each one held a lit torch, and the hiss of the flames was the only sound in the quiet clearing. Then Hugh spoke, his deep voice echoing over the crowd.

“We are here tonight to mourn Alexander, beloved son of Hugh and Rebecca.” He paused, and his chest lifted as he drew a deep breath. “My son.”

An ache shot across my heart. Everyone was still, and it was like the clearing itself held its breath.

“Alex was a lot of things. Principled. Intelligent. Mischievous on occasion.” One side of Hugh’s mouth quirked up. “When he was six years old, I took him to his first Council meeting. Back then, the alpha of the South Central Pack was a notorious curmudgeon stuck in the last century. Possibly even the century before that.”

“I remember Arthur!” someone called from the back of the crowd. Several of the werewolves chuckled.

Hugh smiled. “I spent the flight to the Neutral Zone showing Alex photos of all the alphas he was going to meet. We talked about how important it was for him to be polite and respectful. He was meeting the most powerful wolves of our race, and he needed to appreciate the gravity of the moment. So we got there, and the first thing he did was march straight up to Arthur, stick out his hand, and announce, ‘My dad says you’re a sorry son of a bitch.’”

Everyone in the clearing roared with laughter.

“Arthur’s enforcers spent the rest of the day feeding Alex ice cream,” Hugh added with a grin. The wolves laughed harder, and I pictured a pint-size Alex enjoying a treat while his mortified father tried to smooth things over with the other alpha.

When the laughter died down, Hugh sobered. “Alex was successful at everything he did. This was not the life he would have chosen, but he came home when the need arose. He was willing to serve…and he would have done so with honor.”

A hush fell over the clearing. Then, one by one, people came forward. They spoke of Alex, sharing stories about his life. A childhood friend told a humorous tale about sneaking to a party. A woman wiped tears from her eyes as she shared how Alex had helped the town rebuild after a flood destroyed several homes. A man who looked my age said he’d trained Alex to fight when Alex was a teen—and that Alex had never let his half-breed status stop him from “delivering a good ass-kicking when someone was picking on another trainee.”

I stood beside Dylan, absorbing all this new information even as tears clogged my throat. The people who spoke of knowing Alex when he was a child looked impossibly young. The same as Hugh. With a jolt, I realized they were probably immortal, which meant I was too now. Or might be. Alex had been a half-breed. Did that mean he’d been different? Was that why he hadn’t survived?

And what did Hugh mean when he said this wasn’t the life Alex would have chosen? The questions swirled through my head, threatening to overwhelm me as I grappled with my already overwhelming new reality alongside the surreal realization that Alex was gone. Suddenly, I was eight years old again and standing in the front pew of a small church while funeral home attendants closed the lid of my father’s casket. Until that moment, his death had seemed made-up. Like maybe there had been a mistake and he was going to walk through the front door humming “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” like he always did. But the funeral had delivered the merciless blow of reality. There was no gray ambiguity, just stark black and white.

It was the same now. Alex lay on the pyre, but he wasn’t really there. Not anymore. Yet I was standing in the middle of his world, surrounded by people I now knew he’d never meant to introduce me to. It was hard not to feel like I’d stolen something, even if I didn’t know exactly what it was.

The speeches continued until nearly everyone had spoken and the sky was totally dark except for the smattering of stars and the light of the moon. When the last person returned to their spot in the crowd, Hugh took a torch from one of the men at his side. The flames danced, casting shadows over his face.

“We honor Alexander,” he said, then held the torch to the sticks at the bottom of the pyre. The other men followed suit. Fire licked up the side of the pyre. Within seconds, Alex’s body was surrounded by flames.

“We honor Alexander,” the people around me murmured. My vision blurred, but I was grateful for the tears. I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to watch Alex burn.

* * *

Hugh fetched me after the funeral, and he was quiet as he led me into the house. Which was fine, because I didn’t know what to say. It was easier to trail behind him, my bare feet quiet on the sleek hardwood as I took in more of the house’s furnishings. And the casual luxury only underscored just how much Alex had kept from me. I’d grown up solidly middle class. Everything he’d told me made me believe he’d been the same.

But now I knew that wasn’t the case. He’d lived in two worlds, including one I was never supposed to know about. How could he have ever thought things would work out between us?

Hugh took me back to my room, where he shut the door and leaned against it. The casual position did nothing to make him less formidable. “I’ll have food brought up. Then you need to rest.”

“Does everyone live here?” The house was certainly big enough, but it was hard to imagine all those people staying under one roof. Like some kind of supernatural commune.

“No,” he said, a weak smile flashing over his face. “I can guarantee that would drive me crazy. But this house serves as the pack headquarters. When wolves from distant parts of my territory come into town, they usually stay here.”

---