Page 14 of Fae Divided
“Fuck, yeah,” Simmons yelled, the blond shifter pumping his fist. “Score one for the good guys.”
“Good guys?” James asked, his voice deceptively soft.
The previously cheering group of outcasts gathered around the living room’s television went quiet.
“Well, yeah,” Simmons responded after an uncomfortable pause. His gaze skittered to the oversized plasma screen, the high definition TV out of place among the farmhouse’s retro decor. A cellphone video taken outside the queen’s nightclub and obtained by a national news outlet showed a bloodied human on a stretcher being wheeled to a waiting ambulance. Simmons rubbed his palms on his thighs and cleared his throat. “What happened at Chess tonight will teach the Untouched to think twice before treating our kind like second class citizens. They’ve seen what can happen when we’re pushed too far.”
James shook his head at the outcast’s naivety. After spending a few weeks with the impressionable youth, he understood how easily the rebels’ cause had lured Simmons away from his home pack.
Eric Simmons’ wolf ranked at the bottom of the hierarchal structure of Ferwyn male dominance, and he hated it.
Not every shifter was meant to be a formidable warrior or commanding leader. A healthy pack required a wide range of personalities to thrive, the less aggressive males fulfilling vital, irreplaceable roles within their community. But Simmons chafed at the limitations of his wolf, his mind rejecting his natural inclination to pursue a position within the Clan other than soldier. His lower-level power designation was written in stone at birth, and his dream of becoming a pack leader was lost to fate. The false promises made by Grayson and the rebellion had been too tempting for a dissatisfied young Ferwyn to resist.
Simmons would never become a top-tier warrior. He wasn’t genetically built for it. No matter what the insurgents promised.
“We put thebloodin Blood Island tonight,” Cameron joked. “And the Untouched won’t soon forget it.”
“You think this is funny?” James curled his lip.
What if Noah had been on Guard duty at Chess and injured while protecting the humans? Vampires in bloodlust didn’t differentiate friend from foe, attacking anyone who got between them and prey. The only reason James was still standing alongside treasonous idiots who believed that provoking mankind was agoodthing instead of on his way to Memphis was his belief there was more going on than a simple revolt. And his connection to Sarah. He’d opened the mating bond the second he heard about the nightmare at the club. His Ca’anam was anxious, but her worry wasn’t nearly as intense as it would be if their pup had been seriously hurt.
“No, he doesn’t.” Grayson’s power preceded him into the room, prompting every shifter to lift their chins and expose their vulnerable throats. An action James quickly learned was expected on a regular basis.
He mimicked the others reluctantly, the subservient posture unnatural for his wolf. Jeremiah Grayson wasn’t his Alpha and never would be.
“Did you know about Chess?” James asked, no longer able to suppress his growl. The impertinent question wouldn’t win any brownie points, but he didn’t give a shit. They wouldn’t completely trust him until his connection to Clan Walker was severed—something he prayed never happened—so he might as well voice his opinion and earn the Alpha’s respect if nothing else. “Did you condone it?”
“Leave us,” Grayson ordered his secondary pack, his gaze locked on James, nailing him in place.
The males exited the old farmhouse, most heading to their dorm-like quarters in the renovated barn. Car doors slammed; the more trusted members were allowed to live off-site. James slept upstairs in a room down the hall from the Alpha.
Nope. Not trusted at all.
“Why did every vampire at Chess suddenly fall into bloodlust?” he asked once they were alone. Only blood-starved Dádhe succumbed to the madness. “Witches?” The use of a dark spell was the only explanation.
Grayson relaxed into the lone recliner and gestured for him to take a seat on the floral couch.
James continued to stand; every muscle taut.
“Sit down, Reed. Now.”
He sat. Son of a bitch had put compulsion into the order.
“Were they ours or the knights?” he asked, disgusted by the unscrupulous Anwyll working both sides of the conflict. “But the Knights of Humanity wouldn’t risk killing their people, would they? The Athair did this.”
The Fae Touched involved in the uprising had named themselves the Athair. James hadn’t discovered why the Irish term forfatherhad become the rebellion’s calling card—but he would.
“You want the short answer or the long one?” Grayson kicked back, crossing his legs at the ankles on the leather footrest that popped up with a backward push. He crossed his arms over his flat stomach and sighed. Grayson sounded tired. There were shadows underneath his dark eyes, and at least a week’s worth of whiskers covered his jaw. James had heard him pacing his bedroom late into the night and wondered if the Alpha ever slept while trespassing in ESC territory.
“I want the truth.”
“I knew about the plans for Chess. And yes, an Anwyll catalyst spell was created to trigger our Dádhe friends into exposing the more primal side of their nature.”
“And the knights approved? I find that hard to believe.”
“What makes you think we require their approval?” Grayson’s eyes were closed, unconcerned a seasoned male with questionable loyalty was within striking distance.
James was tempted to shatter his indifference with a killing blow the Alpha would never see coming.
