Page 2 of Orion: Galaxy Huntress

Chapter 2

Ace

“Dammit, Darius!”I slammed my fist into the arm of the Council’s ceremonial meeting chair. “We can’t admit defeat.”

Five eyes swiveled to me. Respected members of the pack’s Council. Elders, warriors, medicine woman. Outbursts were rare for me, even if I was gruff and delivered brutal honesty. Flames reflected in their gaze from the ceremonial pit in the center of our cave. Fire that blazed bright in my eyes, refusing to accept my brother’s verdict.

“I don’t see any other way.” My brother, the pack’s Alpha, leveled me with a hard, heavy stare with eyes weighed down by too much burden for his twenty-eight years. He swiped at his gray-pricked dark hair. “We haven’t got the numbers to fight and we can’t breed enough warriors in time to meet our enemy.”

The flames in the fire shrunk at the conquered note in his voice.

“You’re just going to roll over and submit?” My voice shook with heat and flame.

Father had battled our neighboring pack for twenty years. Battles hard won and lost. Many good wolves lost over time, depleting our numbers and theirs too, until the Lithgow pack had merged with the Blue Mountains to become a massive horde. Our father would roll over in his grave if he knew we had yielded this easily. I cast my gaze upon the drawings on the cave’s walls. Scenes scribed by our ancestors of the moon goddess’ blessings, fertility, pups, harvest, plentiful prey, and success in battle. We needed to continue his warrior legacy and fight despite the odds.

“I don’t like it,” my brother growled back, leaning forward, body and gaze full of challenge. “But this is the only way I can ensure the survival of the pack.”

If I pushed this, I’d be forced to fight him. As the pack’s sigma, I was slightly smaller, lesser built, but just as robust. I knew my brother’s weaknesses and could easily take the pack if I tried, but I didn’t want to kill my brother when he and my mother were my last remaining family.

I shot to my feet despite it being an insult to stand before the Alpha. “I’m going into town to seek mercenaries.”

“You haven’t been dismissed.” My brother’s growl deepened into his chest, the threat of it throbbing, his wolf primed and ready to attack and pull me back into line.

“Ace, sit down,” my mother pleaded from her position as medicine woman and wise council.

My brother was the cautious one. Inherited it from her. While I was the hothead who made shit happen. I’d not let her make me see reason.

“I’m leaving,” I announced, turning my back on my brother and leader, committing a grave offense. One that I hoped would be forgiven when I returned with an army of fighters to defend our territory and future.

My brother’s snarl snapped through the cave like a cracked whip, but it failed to stop me. The only way to curb my defiance was to take me down, an action I knew he’d refuse for the sake of our family.

Frustrated, I threw myself in my dark pickup truck and cranked the engine. Easy rock blared through the speakers and I closed my eyes, pinching my brow, needing the tunes to lower my burning need to set the Lithgow pack alight to end this war once and forever. They’d sought our lands for almost twenty-five years. We were the gateway to broader and richer territory, rich in minerals, pasture and agricultural lands that they could use to fund their greed for mining titles. Surrounding territories paid us protection money, somewhat like a mafia extortion racket, to protect them from interference by other packs and supernaturals. An accord between human and supes. We’d kept the territory safe for over a hundred years and we wouldn’t let it down now.

Tires screeched as my pickup tore out of the pack’s parking lot and headed for town. Bathurst and its surrounding area had been home to us for hundreds of years, and I for one, didn’t plan on losing it to greedy-assed pricks from the east.

***

I foundhim at the bar, amid the lunch patrons stuffing burgers, fries, and beers into their mugs, drinking, reading the paper, his speared tail swishing lazily behind him like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world. He raised a finger at his bartender, signaling for a refill on his coffee, and rich, dark espresso was poured into his waiting cup. His tail twitched a few times like he orgasmed as he downed the bitter liquid.

My reflection in the tavern’s windows revealed my unkempt hair and grumpy expression. I straightened my collar and swiped a hand through my dark brown hair before entering.

The tavern’s owner slammed down his coffee mug. “Fuck, you make the best coffee, Rich!” His tail stabbed at the fries on his plate, swirled them in ketchup and fed them to himself.

The overpowering scent of ash, burning wood, and sulphur blocked up my nose. I held back a gag as I sat down beside him on a red barstool, breaking the custom of being invited. Only patrons who passed the test were allowed to sit beside the tavern owner. The test of being dumb enough to hand over their soul for a crappy deal. His bartender gave me a foul look, his hand disappearing below the counter, no doubt seeking the pistol loaded with silver bullets.

“I need your help, Vice,” I growled, not in the mood to argue over trivial shit like fucking appointments and respect when this dick owed me.

Focused on the newspaper, the tavern owner scratched the leathery wings jutting from his shoulders. “Good afternoon to you, too, Ace.”

Many came to bargain with him for deals, and the local crossroads demon delivered. Screwed most idiots out of their belongings, houses, wives, even children sometimes, but I’d heard the stories about him and was guarded and careful. I’d make sure I had all the terms and conditions up front. None of this cheating bullshit or I’d cut off his other horn and disgrace him further.

Humans didn’t see beyond the glamor he wore to disguise his horn, tail, and wings. Some supes terrified the humans, so they kept a low profile. People could sense the difference between the supes, a subtle prickle of power. That, and the tattoos we wore. Each creature had a different tattoo on its wrist, neck, or chest, indicating identity. In the wolf shifters’ case, ours identified the pack we belonged to. Our moon goddess imprinted it on us at birth. The demon here, though, wasn’t so lucky, and was stamped on his wrist before he was let out of Hell.

“What’ll it be?” the demon asked, casually flicking the page of his newspaper.

I ripped it out of his hands and growled, “I need an army.”

“You want to be leader?” The demon casually picked up his coffee cup and sipped, staring behind the bar and not at me. “It’s yours.”

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