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Rated: GC · Campfire Creative · Other · Supernatural · #2049902
It's a new Underworld, and the term Godfather just got a lot more literal...
[Introduction]
It's 1926, eight years after the end of World War One, and what remains of the 236 Special Supernatural Independent Squadron--called the Supes--are retired, spread all over the planet, and done with fighting. They served the Allies on all fronts, giving their lives that the Germans could not run rampant over the world, but now they're scholars and businessmen, teachers and even Lords. Some have married, some went home and could not face the world. But there is something that still unites them: the supernatural powers that made them special in the first place, and their shared experience of horrific warfare. They are a brotherhood. They are the Supes.

In America, two of them run a notorious speakeasy, catering to the supernatural set. Things are good, and the jazz is flowing. In England, the last of the Woodhull Pack languishes in his ancestral manor, now a Lord because his brothers are all dead. And, in the twisting desert sands of Egypt, the youngest Supe has just made a glorious discovery: a heretofore unknown temple, not recorded in any ancient sources.

One problem: it isn't a temple at all, but a prison, and what's inside it is still very much alive. Worse, now he's escaped and is determined to make this new world completely his.

Time for the Supes to go to war again. But this time, the battleground is not the trenches of France and their enemy is not so easy to find. This time, the fight goes to the Underworld, where gangsters play and the name Godfather is much more literal than usual.
*****


Our characters are Supes (and one is a flapper that gets caught up in events). Together, they help their brother-in-arms stop the supernatural force he's accidentally set loose on the world. This force is Set, Ancient Egyptian god of chaos, storms, and the desert, who was trapped by Horus as punishment for his crimes. In our world, he is not as powerful as he once was, but he is adaptable and he is just as determined as ever to rise to the top. Soon, he has established himself as a gangster of some repute; a gangster called The Chaos Serpent, known for his ability to gather fame and fortune at alarming rates, and with disturbing cruelty.

In a world of guns, booze, and jazz, will our Supes be able to win this new war, or will the enemy finally defeat them?
*****


Deets and discussion are over in the forum! We'll talk about characters, powers, plots, and anything else that needs discussing over there. Let's do this!
“Cal. Cal, wake up. Almost zero hour.”

The world rocked, and Cal’s eyes opened to a cascade of dirt pouring into them. He blinked away the momentary pain—the Wolf would take care of it soon enough—and sat up, stretching sleep-tight limbs until they popped. Screams tore into his ears. The metallic scent of blood brought water to his mouth, and horror cascading behind it. Cal thought he’d gotten over the worst of the Wolf-thirst—the constant reminders that he was more animal than the average human—but it had gotten worse of late. Now every day felt like the moon hovered over him, waiting to pluck his sense and set the beast ravaging.

Joe stared down at him. He was Alpha now that Eddie was gone, and Jimmy before him. Thomas was long gone—torn down by the unnatural silver rain at Ypres along with the rest of the Pack. Two left of thirty; a legacy of a hundred years gone in the span of months. “Your Aussies crossed the river last night and are getting ready to push forward; don’t you want to help your fellow countrymen?”

Cal chuffed. “I’d much rather drown myself in a vat of wine than cross that river, Joe. You can smell the death on them Huns; they’re ready to crumble.”

Joe pulled his helmet off his head and ran a hand through his sandy hair. It was a quick movement—quicker than the average man could achieve—and even then Joe seemed almost relieved when the metal hat was back down. Even the Wolf couldn’t save a man from a bullet to the head. “Then you also smell the Fraus.”

“Yes.” Cal nodded sharply. “Like rotten meat and brimstone.”

“They’ve got something cookin’,” Joe drawled, his Geordie accent leaving half of everything behind in his throat. “Brass hats say they’re prepared for the offensive and want us to clear the way for the Regs.”

Cal accepted a cup of water, wincing at its smell. There was never anything clean anymore. The war had stripped the life from life itself, until nothing was left except stubborn survival and the need to make everything worth it. If they could win the war, maybe the death would have meaning; maybe they could look around at the salted earth and decide the destruction had significance. “Support?”

“Weather worker, to keep…” Joe didn’t finish the sentence; he didn’t need to. “And the Screamer. Hoping to distract them while we sneak in and take care of the coven. Don’t rightly know how they’re still alive; I thought we’d gotten rid of all of the bitches.”

Cal winced. “No gas, then.” Graham would be there if anyone thought gas would be used. “Hassan?”

“Further down the line, where they think the shelling will be heaviest.”

“Damn.”

Cal followed Joe through the lines, aware that everyone’s eyes were upon them. Nearly decimated or no, Joe and Cal were Supes and everyone knew about the 236th; they’d practically won Palestine and Verdun. It had been Hicks who brought down Richthofen, they said, as he chased Lieutenant May; who else could have taken on the Red Baron and won? And the Woodhull Pack was famous for their ferocity in battle. Their sacrifice at Ypres was well known; with so much Hun firepower concentrated on taking out the werewolves who’d decimated their Spezialkorps for most of the war, it had allowed the Regs to win the day.

But no one cheered to see them. No one cheered at all anymore. Cal doubted anyone would cheer even when the war was over; the war would never be over for most of them.

“It’s too bad Will…”

Cal shook his head. “No. If his problems are bad enough they’re not slapping a bandage on it and pushing him back into the trenches, there’s nothing too bad about it.”

Joe snorted. “Went all doolally on us, ‘e did. Perhaps he’s the lucky one.”

Cal leveled his gaze at his Alpha. It hardly meant anything anymore; a default title because there needed to be one. “What he’ll have to go through ain’t lucky. If I had to spend the rest of my life living the war in my sleep, I’d rather that life be nice and short.”

“You’ll get yer chance today.” Joe lit a fag and offered one to Cal, who refused. He’d never been one for gaspers. “According to Jacques…this is a trap. One we gotta spring if the Regs are going to survive in any numbers.”

Cal spat. “Oh, this is a trap, is it? I see our resident frog managed to figure that out before the battle this time. Notice he isn’t here to spring the trap. Has to send the wolves out to do it again.”

“Ypres was not Jacques’ fault. Krauts fed him bad information and Haig went with it.”

“He had to know it was bad.” Cal hadn’t seen the copier in almost a year, but none of the anger had left him in that time. Jacques du Marnier was used in a lot of different ways; his gifts made him applicable to all sorts of military ventures. But it was in spying and communication that he was most frequently used. Even if one of his copies were killed, the original knew what it had learned. So long as the original was safe, nothing could be compromised. One of the copies had been there at Ypres when the ground had opened up and silver had fallen from the sky. It had perished with the rest of the Pack, but unlike the wolves, Jacques woke up the next morning. “And he reported it anyway.”

Joe growled. This was an old argument between them. “How was he to know it was bad, Cal? The Spezzes weren’t supposed to be there and they were. They fed him bad info to take us out and Haig made the wrong call. The copy went down trying to save Thomas.”

“And yet Thomas isn’t here.” Some part of Cal knew it was unfair to blame the copier for his Pack’s death; he knew it for helpless rage in need of an outlet, and that Jacques was just a scapegoat for the Wolf’s pain. But still he blamed the Frenchman, and that anger burned hot within him.

“This is war. There’s not a person on this planet who hasn’t lost someone close to them.” There was a warning in Joe’s voice that silenced any reply Cal might have made. Joe had been a Wolf for years before Ypres and there was instinctive leadership in him; as the youngest member of the Pack even before the massacre, Cal was bound to listen. Joe’s head tilted as if someone were speaking to him; the Screamer had a quiet voice if necessary. “All right…looks like it’s about time to go over the top. Cover your ears.”

Cal pressed his fingers to his ears and watched as everyone else copied the motion, some men even pulling earmuffs on for extra protection. Moments later, a cry pierced the morning air, shaking the ground and the leaves in the trees. Atop the mount, the Germans’ stronghold trembled and the whizz bangs stopped. For a moment, as the cry faded into nothing, there was silence along the Somme.

Then the wolves charged.

Cal could feel his lungs fill with air and his heart pound blood through his veins. He could feel the way the Wolf danced just beneath his skin, held in check by his will and nothing else. The moon wasn’t that far from full and it still tugged at him; it tugged at the both of them as they danced over No Man’s Land, their limbs made preternaturally graceful by the creature within. In the time it took the Germans to regroup and begin the bombardment once more, they crossed the field.

“The Fraus are this way,” Joe said, brown eyes glinting gold in the morning light. His nose was better than Cal’s; he’d lived with his creature for much longer. “Careful. Who knows whe—“

Joe grunted and Cal dove to the ground. “Joe?”

“It’s nothing. Bullet grazed my shoulder. I’ll be fine.” Joe pushed forward and Cal followed, the two of them staying low as they swept around East of the mount and away from the German stronghold. The Fraus would be out of reach of the Australians’ artillery, hidden among the trees. Their kind preferred the forest. Cal felt his stomach roil at the smell of them, rotten and Hellish, the closer they got. He pushed the Wolf away as it responded to the threat.

Cal tumbled as the Wolf surged, refusing to be dismissed. He was still young; the creature had more control over him than Joe’s did. He winced as he hit the ground shoulder first but rolled out of the fall and back to his feet an instant later, wrestling with himself as the scent of blood drenched the air. “Joe?”

“Found the trap.”

Cal rushed to his friend’s side. Joe’s face swam in blood, and Cal could barely see his Alpha’s left side for the mangled flesh. “God man…change.”

Joe grimaced. “Can’t. Part of the trap. How’d you miss it?”

“Wolf.”

“Ah…such a baby.” Joe chuckled, and blood pooled out of his mouth. “Good thing, too. It’ll leave you going when I spring the rest of this thing.”

Cal looked around. No one was coming. He couldn’t smell another trap. “What do you mean? We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Don’t be a fool, Cal. All those Regs’ll die if we don’t take care of this. You think I’m worth more than thousands of Tommies?”

“Yes. Yes, you are, Joe. To me, you are.”

Joe shook his head and a growl bubbled in his throat. “Fool. We were sent out here to trigger the trap and that’s what we’ll do. Fair cop to the Fraus for taking away my defenses first. On my count, change. The Wolf will protect you. And he’ll know what to do next. Understand me?”

Cal felt the binding of the Pack wrap around him. He tried to fight it. With every ounce of his will, he pushed against the command of his Alpha. If Joe died, he would be alone. He would be the only one left of the Woodhull Pack. How could he doom the Pack to extinction? But the binding was overwhelming, and he was junior in every way. Cal nodded. “Yes, Alpha.”

“Good. Now…on three. One…” Joe coughed, and blood poured down his front. The Wolf was barely keeping him alive. If he could get back to the British lines, he might survive, but he’d stand no chance against whatever the German witches had in store. Cal shook. The Wolf within him raged and mourned. Joe recovered. “Two.”

Cal loosened the bindings on the Wolf, but held it in check. It bayed against him, clawing at his insides, demanding to be let free.

“Three.”

A howl tore through the countryside. Inside a copse of trees thirty meters away, the Witches trembled.
*****


“Sir? Sir? Wake up, Sir.”

Alasdair McMillan, Lord Woodhull, opened his eyes and blinked in the dull light of his study. It was raining; it was always raining in England. Weather like this made him long for the scalding heat of Australia, where one’s blood boiled beneath the onslaught of the sun. He wanted blue-white skies and sun-drenched pools where he could bathe naked and feel his skin steam dry against the burning rocks of the bush. He would turn brown and the bottoms of his feet would grow tough and strong as he ran barefoot in the wilderness, laughing with his cousins.

There was nothing left of that life now. It had hardly been a life at all, truth be told; by ten, his mother was dead and he was back in Brisbane with his father, where spiteful eyes followed every step and proclaimed him criminal before he’d ever spoken a word. ‘Mick’ and ‘boong’ followed him everywhere; he was arrested twice by the age of twelve for crimes he didn’t commit, and countless times in the years following. It didn’t matter to the men doing the arresting; one Irishman was as good as another, and they couldn’t even tell Aboriginals apart.

Not that it was much better now.

“Yes, Wilkins?”

“You were groaning, my Lord.” Wilkins was an old man, but a strong one for all that. He had served the Woodhull Clan for forty years, beginning as a footman and rising to the position of butler when his father died. Three sons had gone to war; three pine boxes had returned. He and Alasdair were the only ones left; one old and one young, but both the end of the line, with no one left to take their place. Woodhull Manor was a house of the dead, no matter that people yet lived within its walls.

“Oh.” Alasdair glanced out the window. He recognized the man staring back at him from the glass, but that face didn’t feel like his anymore. That face should have stayed behind in France; it should not be blinking at him now, green eyes as bright as they had been the day the war began. He should not have allowed himself to survive. “Yes.”

“The war, sir.” Wilkins’ watery blue eyes were sympathetic. “It has entered your dreams?”

Alasdair shook his head and pulled himself from his chair. “No, Wilkins. It only haunts me when I am awake to think about it. Otherwise, I am unmarred. Not even a scratch.”

“You say that as if it is a bad thing, my Lord.” Wilkins poured Alasdair a snifter of brandy and pressed the glass into the younger man’s hand. “Eight years since you came home Alpha, and you still act as if you have something to be guilty about.”

Alasdair downed the brandy in a single gulp. The rush of warmth lasted less than a minute before the Wolf forced the alcohol out of his system. It took a steady stream of the stuff to keep Alasdair inebriated. Fortunately, the cellar was full and there was only one Wolf drinking.

Wilkins spoke again when Alasdair didn’t answer. “Lots of men came home, sir. And many of them came home without a scratch. Are all of them guilty of the same thing? Should every man have left himself behind in the trenches, even when the Reaper did not claim them for his own?”

“No.”

“Then why, may I ask, are you so special?”

Alasdair shot a glance at the old man. “You go too far, Wilkins. I may not be the Alpha who left this place twelve years ago, but I am Alpha now and due respect.”

“I would rather lose my position, sir, than let you squander yourself. You were never meant to become Alpha, but Lord Thomas did choose you and foster you into this Pack. And as Pack, it is your duty to ensure its survival.” Wilkins stood straight, his hands linked behind his back. “You have wallowed here in this manor for eight years, forcing the servants to dwell with ghosts all this time. You are Lord Woodhull, sir; it is high time you acted like it.”

Alasdair growled and threw his glass into the fire. “Enough, Wilkins! You try my patience! I keep you here because I sympathize with your loss, but if you continue in this behavior, I will dismiss you.”

“Very well, sir. If that is how you wish it to be…” The old man bowed slightly at the waist and turned toward the door.

“God.” Alasdair ran a hand through his dark hair. “Stop, Wilkins. I was unfair, and you were just speaking the truth. Forgive me.”

“Of course, Lord Woodhull.” Wilkins turned and let his mouth settle into a small smile. “There is no question of forgiveness. You are Lord Woodhull.”

“I have no wish to be forgiven because I am Lord Woodhull; I wish to be forgiven because you forgive me. I was Alasdair before the war, and I am still Alasdair.” Alasdair walked to the window and stared out at the gray skies. Even through the glass, he could smell the way soil and water met; after so much rain, it reeked of mold and fungus, the sweetness of petrichor giving way to rot.

“With all due respect, sir, but you were Cal before the war and Lord Woodhull when you came home. And I forgive Cal wholeheartedly.”

“Thank you, Wilkins.” Alasdair smiled. “No one’s called me Cal in…well, in nine years. Since Joe…”

Wilkins stepped forward. “Joe made the sacrifice of an Alpha. You have no need to feel guilt on his account any more than anyone else’s. Even if he had survived, he would not have had the strength to create new Wolves and he knew that. You, however, do possess that strength.”

“Do I, indeed? Omega as I was.”

“You are Alpha now, and you are strong. There is strength in the office. And there is strength in you, Cal.”

Alasdair chuckled. “We should record ourselves and simply play it back on the phonograph, Wilkins. It would save us the effort of having this conversation again and again.”

“Or you could actually do something instead of placating an old man.”

“Perhaps.”

“And what of your fellows in the 236th? Your fellow Supes? Do you not plan on reuniting with them at all? You were friendly with a number of them, were you not?” Wilkins raised his eyebrows.

“What need would they have of me? We were brought together by war, and that war is done. They have returned to their lives, and I have returned to mine. Why dredge up old memories that are nothing but pain for all involved?”

Wilkins frowned. “More than pain, sir, surely. Even amidst horror, there must be laughter. Do not tell me my sons had no joy in those years they fought; it would undo me to know this.”

“No…no, forgive me again, Wilkins. Of course there is joy. But the Supes…it was different for us. We went where the battles were; there was little time for such pleasures among our group. Most of us never made it home at all. Shouldn’t they get to move forward as much as they want?”

“And you don’t think they want to move forward with you?”

“Why would they?” Alasdair turned back to the window. A car had just pulled up to the front door, and two men were climbing out. The first wore a turban above a stylish suit, and the second… “My God…Will and Hassan. What a coincidence, Wilkins; or have you been hiding precognition all this time?”

“I sincerely doubt it, sir. It seems to me Providence has acted in this instance, and Providence is on my side.”

Alasdair rolled his eyes. “Impudence, Wilkins. Impudence. Please see to it that my guests are treated comfortably. Bring them here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alasdair watched as Hassan and Will approached the front door and then turned to a mirror. He smoothed his hair and brushed at the front of his shirt. No need for a jacket for old friends, but he should at least be properly kempt; he was Lord Woodhull now, and even werewolves were not exempt from the laws of good manners.

He smelled the anxiety well before the knock came, and heard it in the slightly elevated pitch of Will’s voice. Hassan’s sweat was slightly acrid; he was greatly discomfited, and unnerved. Whatever the reason these two men had come, it was not a social call.

“Lord Woodhull. Dr. William Tennant and Mister Hassan al Mahmoud here to see you.”

“Send them in, Wilkins. And bring them some ale; something strong for Hassan and English for Will.”

Will pressed his way into the room, ducking beneath the doorframe that was three inches too short for him. “You remember, then, Lieutenant?”

Alasdair smiled. “I never forget such things. Now, tell me…what brings you and Hassan from Egypt?”

Hassan blinked. “I had forgotten how good your Wolf nose is. Next thing you know, he’ll be telling us exactly where we came from.”

“The West Valley of the Kings.”

Will burst out laughing. “How could your nose possibly know that?”

“You smell less like the Nile than someone in the Eastern Valley would. Also…you are both in the papers. Everyone is convinced the Valley has been cleared since Carter found Tutankhamun four years ago, and even that was a surprise. I’ve followed your excavations closely.”

“I see your humor is unchanged, Mac,” Hassan muttered. “It was never very good.”

Alasdair smirked. “Then we should move on. Tell me what has gone wrong and then let me know exactly how I may be of use to you.”
Will drummed long fingers on the steering wheel, his thoughts so intently focused on his mission that the beauty of the lush green countryside was all but lost to him. His heavy wool suit tugged strangely on his muscular limbs, the oppressive weave a far cry from the comfort of the soft linens to which he’d grown accustomed. The coolness in the air, the jarring vibration of the car, even the sounds of the birds made the doctor feel increasingly on edge.

He felt Hassan’s eyes on him and pretended not to notice, turning down the long driveway to Woodhull Manor.

“What will we tell him?” Hassan asked, a lingering concern in his deep and ancient baritone.

“The truth.” Will answered, hearing regret and guilt seep from each word. Mac should have had no part in this, and the act of stepping back into his life felt like a betrayal. They had lost everything for peace, and now he would snatch it away from a man who so wholly deserved it, all because of a stupid mistake.

They approached the house; a sprawling manor that loomed over the drive like a ghost and beckoned like a siren. It seemed appropriate, considering its tenant.

When they were ushered in the conversation came easy, which was more than Will had expected. Though they had always felt a significant bond, and with it a mutual respect, it had been years since the Doctor had laid eyes on his old Lieutenant, and never in a setting such as this.

To Will’s relief, Mac did not stink of the aristocracy as so many in his friend’s position did. It was a poison among the British, Will thought, and admittedly among the aristocracy as a whole, that with wealth and formality often came a cold and stiflingly disconnected nature. He loved his country, but this particular trait was one that gave him a foul dislike for society and a very real desire to crawl back into the hole he had too hastily dug in the warm sands of Egypt.

But instead of the haughty air that could so easily have been adopted with the estate, the lord of Woodhall manor appeared unchanged, warmly gesturing for the men to sit as he took his place in a large leather chair.

Will chose to remain standing, the hours on the train and in the car enough to inspire a desire to stretch. Hassan was not so rude, and settled opposite their host, finding his place on a red velvet couch. Nervous energy radiated off of him, an even more unsettling sight considering the man’s usually rigid resolve.

“Tell me what has gone wrong and then let me know exactly how I may be of use to you.” Alisdair repeated.

“Of course, though you must forgive me, it’s a bit of a story.” Will tugged on his vest, straightening books on the opposite wall without taking a step toward them. Mac smiled but said nothing, undoubtedly used to the telekinetic tick that had been a part of Will’s persona for so many years.

Wilkins returned with two cold glasses of ale balanced on a fine silver tray. The visitors accepted them with thanks, Will suddenly finding himself thankful for the interruption to his confession. He sat the glass aside half drained and cleared his throat, the reality of the world stealing from him any warmth cold ale and good company could provide.

“You were right, Lieutenant, we do need your help.” He said, withdrawing a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and immediately replacing it, remembering Mac’s aversion to the smell. “We awoke something at the dig in Egypt.Something we cannot conquer without your assistance.”

Mac knit his brow, “Awoke something? Do you know what?”

“He appears to be the deity, Set.” Hassan answered.

Mac lifted the corner of his mouth into his crooked smile, somehow showing his skepticism without displaying any lack of trust. “The god of desert storms?”

“The usurper of Osiris, yes.” Will answered finally. Taking a seat beside Hassan he slowed his words, stifling the anxiety and replacing it with the careful articulation he favored.“Two months ago we discovered what we believed was a tomb. It was perfection, Mac, the sort of discovery scholars dream about. The sort of discovery men give their lives in hopes of finding. We were overwhelmed, and in a week we doubled the size of our crew to uncover it. As we went, each layer uncovered was more intricate, it’s messages more difficult to decode. As we drew closer to the main chamber, we found the writings which had been chiefly focused on Set, were not stories but warnings. They spoke of his prison, and not a tomb. Needless to say we were not wholly convinced.”

“Still, we are not the most reckless of men.” Hassan added, “We told the workers to stop digging without supervision; we would study each door before we moved through it, in case traps were set. But the new men were untested. A few continued, hoping to loot what they could while the rest of us slept. We woke to the ground shaking.” A visible shudder went through Hassan, who drained the rest of his ale and gripped the glass between his broad palms.

“We thought the supports were giving out.” Will continued where his friend had stopped, his elbows resting on his knees, “We made it to the site in time to see him appear.”

The doctor let out the quick breath of a man defeated, and found his feet again. “His silhouette alone was unmistakable. It was Set. The long dark face and thick horns of the Set animal, set atop the body of a man. He came toward Hassan and myself, whispering thanks for his release and mocking our foolishness. His voice was filled with such darkness and depth it is disturbing even in memory.”

Will could feel his heart pound in his chest, the violent thump inspired not by fear but by a loathing so fierce it took all of his effort to keep the room from rattling, “He took up and threw workers into the tomb with every step, we could hear their bones cracking as they hit that damn stone. Hassan scattered the men as I pulled as many out of his reach as I could manage, all the while reaching out to tear his throat. I could inspire him to bleed, but nothing more.”

Will ran his hands over his head, the image of the men shattering against golden stone replaying again and again in his mind. Another thing to haunt his nightmares.

“Please continue, Will.” Mac requested gently, his tone a great deal more serious, his smile long since faded.

“When he had killed more than half of them, the beast faded like a mirage. Before us stood a man. Dark, muscular, ancient in appearance. He looked in my eyes and whispered in ancient Egyptian, his voice human in a way that made me doubt what I had witnessed, ‘You will live so you can watch.’ He disappeared into the sand and we have heard nothing more of him.”

“Good God. How long ago?”

“Seven days, tomorrow. But it is not the worst of it, Mac.” No longer able to keep the room silent, the books on the shelf began to rattle, the ale in his mug rising to a boil. Will balled his hands into fists, ceasing the tremor and regaining his control. “When the ground started to tremble, before we ever saw his face, I felt the same presence I felt that first day in Verdun.”

Will watched Mac’s eyes grow distant and pained. He could hear the screams as e watched his old friend drift back to that monstrous day, where hundreds of their fellow Supes were shredded by an unseen enemy, an enemy who was nothing to the senses but a terrifying, oppressive presence. It was the first of many bloody days, though the only one that had been possessed by such a demon as that presence.

Mac rubbed his hand against his chin, suddenly coming back to himself “We need to reach out to the others. If Set is on the move, and if he, or something like him, was responsible for that day in Verdun, then we will need more than us three.”

Will nodded, eager to press from his mind the violence of a thousand terrible days to again focus on the solution, “I called Harry yesterday, asked if he would keep an ear to the ground. But I am hesitant to put any of the others at risk. This god is loose because I made a mistake, those men are dead because I made a mistake, I would spare you if I could,”

“It was not your fault.” Hassan interrupted, clapping a hand over Will’s broad shoulder with a quick nod to Mac, as if to reassure both parties. Mac quickly bowed his head in agreement.

“How it came about is of little consequence, the fact that you are wrapped up in it is enough for me to get involved as well. I will charter a plane for the States. I have calls to make. We can meet with Harry and the others in person, they run a speakeasy called Soma, if I am remembering correctly. It will be easy enough to gather our brothers there. Let them decide for themselves if they will be a part of this.” Mac answered, standing quickly and calling for Wilkins, “We will leave in the morning.”

Will bowed his head, his guilt punishing him at the slightest thought he could put the others at risk, but his logic overwhelming the guilt. He could not do it with just Hassan, he needed help.


October 1918; Flanders, France…

Franklin Darby hated the trench he was in; his muscles cramped from lack of movement, he shivered from the cold, and, try as he might to keep them dry, the seat of his pants seemed constantly soaked with ditchwater.

He rubbed his hands together and blew into them before he reached for the pack at his belt, unwilling to lose a precious cigarette due to the clumsiness brought on by cold.

The paper tube of tobacco and filter secured in the corner of his mouth, Franklin reached for his lighter. He cursed in frustration as he fumbled around for it; it was at times like these when he wished that sergeant was around, Tennant was his name.

The guy could light a smoke with just a thought; in fact he’d done just that the day he and Franklin first met. That made him a useful sort of fella in Franklin’s books. He hadn’t seen much of him since then, or any other members of the 236th Special Supernatural Independent Squadron (shortened to Supes when not in the presence of officers) to which he was assigned.

Just as he fished his lighter out of its pocket; his partner Harry dropped down into the muddy trench beside him, his boots hit the bottom with a splat. “Oh Frank you are not going to believe the surprise I have for you!”

Franklin paused mid-motion; a dour expression darkened his features. “This better not be like that time at Vimy, Harry,” the cigarette’s tip bounced as he spoke. “I could go the rest of my goddamn life without another surprise like that.”

“Oh stop it,” Harry replied nonchalantly as he knelt down in front of Franklin. “I told you, Mary the nurse was supposed to be up in that hayloft…not you!”

Franklin shook his head and lit his cigarette; the smoke that rolled down his throat had all the charm of sawdust and horseshit but it did hit the spot, bad tobacco couldn’t compare to no tobacco.

The brown loaf that Harry pulled out of his sack made Franklin sit up and take notice, “Is that…bread,” he asked incredulously. “And is it steaming?”

“Yes and yes,” Harry replied in excitement as he yanked the bayonet from his belt. “I also managed to procure this and this.” Harry flourished as he pulled ham and mustard from the pouch.

“Bully Harry!” Franklin grinned as he grabbed two slabs of bread, a chunk of ham and the mustard. He didn’t bother asking him how he managed to acquire the food; neither man liked sharing their strategies with the other, lest the competition of theft go in that man’s favor.

After he had slapped together his ‘sandwich’ Franklin puffed twice more on his smoke and the stubbed it out in the mud, its epitaph was a simple hiss. He bit into the sandwich with no small amount of gusto and grinned at Harry, a grin that was promptly returned.

The two ate in the relative silence of sporadic rifle and artillery fire for a couple minutes before a voice interrupted their meal. “Darby, Baladeva, ” Lieutenant Rawlinson spoke from behind his shoulder.

“Ma’am,” both men straightened to attention as they spoke; Franklin did his best to hide a grin at Allison Rawlinson’s presence, her infrequent visits were always a sight for sore eyes.

He and Allison went way back with history that stretched back to his childhood growing up on the streets of Toronto and later in the Catholic Orphanage; while he didn’t know how she’d won a commission in the King’s army, he figured it was in no small part due to her gifts of intelligence, and powers.

Allison had never described her powers in any sort of detail; just that she had gifts that set her apart from others, gifts that made her fundamentally more like Franklin and other supernatural beings than a common woman.

Franklin had only seen them used a handful of times, but those few moments were enough to convince him that she was right. Her reflexes were the better of any man, she could disappear in the blink of an eye and reappear in a completely different spot and she seemed to be a natural at everything; excelling at weapons, pickpocketing and martial arts on her first try.

“I’ve got another mission for you gentlemen,” Allison spoke after she waved them to the position of ease. “This time you’ll need to go deep behind the German lines at Armentieres, the Huns are pounding on our boys and we need you to take some of the pressure off.”

“We’re infiltrators ma’am,” Harry spoke from behind Franklin. “All due respect to you but what do you expect us to do in a raging warzone?”

“What I expect corporal ,” Allison’s face carried an expression of bemusement. “Is that you’ll…infiltrate their positions and do what you two do best: disrupt communications, misdirect supplies, possibly even assassinate or impersonate German officers to give contradictory orders.”

Harry muttered something and stormed off, Franklin winced at each splat his boots made. “Don’t worry ma’am,” he slung his rifle over his shoulder. “I’ll make sure it gets done.”

“I know Franklin and I trust you completely but,” she motioned at Harry’s back. “Are you sure about him? He seems a quite-“

“He’s a good man Allison,” Franklin hadn’t used her first name since before the war. “And he’s my friend; I trust him with my life.”

“Just make sure that trust isn’t misplaced Franklin,” her face took on a pronounced frown. “This war’s only a couple months away from ending and it woul-“ she paused for a moment and forced a smile. “It’d be a damn shame if you got your stupid head blown off so close to the end.”

Before the war, Franklin would have thrown on a lopsided grin and said ‘C’mon, it’s me! No way that’s ever gonna happen!’

Now he just gave a tight smile and took her hand in his. “Hey, if I don’t m-“

“No,” Allison pulled her hand away. “Don’t you give me any of that!”

“I just mean-“

“I said no dammit!” Allison shouted.

“Franklin,” Harry called from down the trench. “We’re moving out in five!”

“Goddammit Harry,” Franklin snarled. “Would you give me a min-“

The venom died on his lips as he turned around, Allison had vanished. Her way of making sure I come back, she knows I’d never leave without saying goodbye.

He sighed and grabbed at the space where she had been, it would have to do for now. He tugged on the strap of his rifle and turned towards Harry, he had a job to do and a war to fight.

***

September 1926; Baltimore, United States…

Franklin took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it onto the street; the cherry red ember at the tip quickly burned down to nothing, a thin wisp of smoke was all it left behind.

“Jesus man,” Robert hissed from his right. “Did you have to put that out so close to him?”

“Oh would you relax Bobby?” Ben hissed back. “It’s not like a cigarette will set me off, or anything else for that matter…remember I’m the one who explodes, not something else that explodes me.”

Franklin faced both men, and scowled; this would be the first and last time he brought help on one of these jobs, it was just so much nicer when he was by himself…no talking, or whining, or arguing to deal with.

The glare he gave was enough to make both men bow their heads in silence; muttered apologies were fast on their lips. “Ben,” he spoke quietly as he adjusted his uniform. “Get down there now but wait for me to give you the signal, if you go off too soon the explosion will be the least of your worries.”

Ben gulped and nodded before he hustled off; Franklin nodded approvingly at his haste. He pulled a Balaclava mask over his face and turned to face in the direction of the building, movement at his side told him that Robert was anxious to speak.

“Say what’s on your mind Robert,” Franklin spoke through the mouth hole of his mask. “We’ve got time.”

“Well; it’s just that…weren’t these jobs supposed to be on the down low? Back when you was first doin’ this stuff, you said it would just be stealin’ things but now…”

“Now…” Franklin let it hang in the midnight air; he wanted Robert to say it himself.

“Now you’re doin’ things that could get people hurt, and you’re getting Ben and I to help you.” Robert was clearly uncomfortable speaking but he pressed on. “I mean, it was one thing when you was just a thief and you wanted Ben and I to cover for you back at the Soma; sure, no problem…but now, now you’ve got a gun and you’re getting Ben to blow himself up down there where there’s a lot of people that didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

Franklin glanced down at the Thompson he held for a moment and considered what Robert was saying; while this wouldn’t be his first time using violence to achieve his goals, it would be his first time using it on such a scale…was it worth it?

Robert laid an arm on his shoulder, “Look man we don’t gotta do this, let’s just pack up an-“

He cut his sentence short with a squeak as Franklin grabbed his shirt and slammed him up against the wall that made up half the deserted alley they waited in. “You listen and you listen good Robert,” Franklin could feel his throat muscles tightening with rage. “Don’t you ever lay your goddamn hand on me again or I’ll send it back to you in pieces! Oh and don’t you worry about me asking you to help me with jobs like this ever again, I’d do better to ask one of the dancing broads at Soma!” He paused for a breath and continued with a softer menace in his voice.

“If you think it goes differently anywhere else in the world then you’re wrong…dead fuckin’ wrong! The black market’s a business for all the nightmares of this world, and violence is the currency, all I’m doing right now is executing a transaction...understand?”

Robert nodded at him, his bottom lip quivered in fright. Franklin let go of him in disgust and stepped back, the man was on the verge of crying. “Listen Rob,” Franklin tried to speak in a more soothing tone as he changed tracks. “You’re a good man, a good customer and I’ll always appreciate your patronage at Soma, Harry and I both will…but you’re just not cut out for this sort of work, am I right?”

Robert’s wet eyes met his; the wary mistrust was already starting to fade. “Y-yeah, you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Franklin put on his best fake grin. “Look, I was just a little worked up back there because of what’s about to happen; nothing personal against you, it used to happen all the time in the Great War before a big battle.” Franklin lied through his teeth, he hadn’t thought much of Robert before this job but he hadn’t realized just how soft and weak he was.

“We all get that way sometimes,” Franklin resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Robert got a stupid grin on his face. “But I forgive you.”

“I appreciate it,” Franklin kept the scorn from his voice. “Now why don’t you tell me if Ben’s made it to the Beacon yet, I’ll need to get going if he has.”

Robert focused his gaze on the direction of the rival speakeasy; Franklin knew that he was scanning for any signs of Ben with his superior vision through the buildings and obstacles that prevented him from seeing Ben.

“He just walked in the side entrance,” Robert answered. “He’s sitting down now.”

“Good,” Franklin finished a final check of his gear and turned to Robert. “No sense in you waiting around here; might as well get back to the Soma before someone sees you.”

“Right, I’ll see you back there eh?”

Franklin didn’t respond as he faded from view and started towards his target, Thompson in hand. He had a job to do and a war to fight.
"Bloody numbers..."

Harinder Baladeva or Harry as most people referred to him really hated business, or rather the more logistical side of things. Scheduling deliveries and payroll and numbers in general just made his brain go for a vacation. Apparently there was a name for it now. Not that that helped much. It was a little late to go back to school, but he worked his way around it. However constant interruptions by needy entertainers didn't help. One man taking care of both sides of business at Soma was one man too little.

Harry preferred to be out on the floor dealing with the patrons and entertainers; not back here in the offices. Alas Frank was gone. He really hated it when his business partner went off on his diversions. Never giving any warning; Frank would just take off on some self-conceived job on his own and Harry would get a debriefing afterwards. Maybe.

Harry closed the ledger and tossed his reading glasses down on the desk. "He better come back soon." he sighed, sliding an eye patch back over his right eye. Pulling a compact mirror from his pocket he studied the dark circles under his eyes. His skin began to shimmer in the reflection and the circles faded away, the eye patch replaced with a perfectly normal brown eye, and his skin slightly healthier looking. No blemishes or creases. His face, the face of Soma, required flawlessness.

Harry stood, sliding the compact back into his pocket and strode out into the public areas. He nodded an acknowledgment to Ella who was already on stage preparing for her first performance of the day. Customers were already beginning to file in as he rushed towards the front to play the ever dapper host. The cold air of a quickly approaching winter accompanying them.

"Welcome to the Soma!" he called out, but found himself drowned out the boom of a distant explosion. The speakeasy went silent and still. Frozen in that moment of ringing eardrums and rapid heartbeats. Sounds of hollow gunfire began sputtering. Obviously several blocks away at least. "Ella!" Harry called out with a uplifted hand that swiveled. Signaling her to strike up the band.
"Apologies for the distractions, gentlemen." Harry continued as music began to play and drowned out the sounds of chaos in the distance, "Do come in."
The atmosphere returned to an easy calm, and men went to business. Expertly dressed and obviously no good men exchanged in every corner of the floor. Waiters and waitresses carried drinks and food in fluid lines between tables and patrons. Harry welcomed new guests until a certain gentleman arrived then left the duties to Eugene a new, but skilled, trainee.

Harry led the gentleman to one of the private backrooms. "Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Gregson?"

"You know that's not what I'm here for." he replied gruffly.

Harry smiled and flipped his hair over his shoulder. "I am aware of that." he said sitting down next to the man, brushing their thighs together as he crossed his legs. "Did you bring what I asked for?"

"Nancy..." the man whispered spitefully as he tossed the box onto the table.

Harry looked Gregson in the eyes with a curve to his lips, "I do not take kindly to name calling. Even if the one doing the calling happens to be one too." The threat was simple enough. An unspoken 'I will ruin you if you piss me off' had long been known between them.

"I never should have.." Gregson said through clenched teeth.

"But you did, darling." Harry answered, reaching for the box on the table.

Gregson grabbed his chin and pinned him back into the seat, sliding his knee between his legs and forcing his mouth open with his tongue; his free hand rushing down to cup Harry's groin only to stop just over the belt.

A small pressure had pressed firmly into his gut. The barrel of a Ceska Zbrojovka vz. 27 began to push harder and Gregson complied, lifting up and away from Harry, lips unlocking, hands raising in the air even as a certain tent remained upright.

"Our meeting is over today, Charles." Harry said curtly, mentally reinforcing his concentration to keep his glamour up.

"Sorry, my dear," he replied with a crooked smile and dangerously heated eyes. "You know I can't resist you."

"Learn discretion. For your own sake, congressman." Harry reprimanded him. "Now do get out. A man of your caliber would surely hate to be seen tossed out on the street."

Gregson, stood up and righted his coat. "I do hope we meet in a more, convenient setting next time."

"That, my friend, is completely up to your remaining usefulness... Darling." Harry said, gun still out, box firmly gripped in his other hand.

"Do I ever disappoint?" Gregson asked.

"Not as of yet."

The congressman left, inconspicuously heading for the door in a casual manner, pulling his scarf back up over his mouth and tugging the brim of his hat down as he exited the Soma.

"Bloody simpleton..." Harry whispered.

A flash of red, crackling and glowing. Brown paper curling in at the edges. Flakes of grey floating. The crisp aroma of smoke wafting upward, carrying earthy scents of grass, herbs, and leather. The man tapped his thick finger against the cigar, peppering ashes onto the velvet tabletop. Wedged between a crooked grin, the Cuban bobbed with every word its owner rasped--with every lie he uttered.

But Ella knew better.

Batting her dark lashes, she reached across the raven fabric to rest her hand on the man's arm. They were seated in her back dressing room. Only a single layer of plush curtains separated the dressing room from the rest of the club, letting in faint echoes of soft jazz. Along the back wall of the room sat a wooden vanity, painted white and etched in gold. Its countertop was littered with lipsticks and powder cases. Above its three curved mirrors, rows of incandescent bulbs cast a glow upon all inside. Open chests were stacked haphazardly in the corner from which piles of silk, chiffon, Georgette, and other fabrics spilled forth. In the center of the room sat a circular table draped in sable velvet, where Ella often sat with clients for her side business as a "medium." Harry and Franklin didn’t seem to mind as long as it didn’t endanger Soma’s success. At the end of most nights, Harry inquires about the wildest thoughts and stories Ella has collected. Franklin, on the other hand, provides a quiet solace when she needs to escape the harangue of people’s busy minds.

Leaning forward in her seat, layered strings of pearls clinked together. The silk neckline of her champagne dress shifted, revealing soft décolletage. A gentle smile played across her blood red lips, but her steel gaze was careful and assessing beneath kohl lining.

"I miss her so much," the man continued to weave. But I've moved on. He coughed roughly, glazed blue eyes peeking out beneath the brim of his hat. They were just as false as they had been then. "I need to know that she's ok." How much did she know? Johhny Patzer did not miss anyone ever. Johnny Patzer was in the business of making people go missing. "I want her to know that I loved her." Did she ever tell anyone?

Now it was Ella's turn to lie.

"You took care of her," Ella reassured him, her voice a smooth, low purr. He sure did. "She meant the world to you..." Until he lost interest. "...and she knew that." Then she knew too much.

For a reading to work, the client had to be present. People sought Ella to make sure their lost loved ones were in a better place and to pass on final messages of apology, gratitude, or forgiveness. She would read the memories that surfaced in her clients’ minds to provide the closure they needed. But without Vivian Patzer in the room, Ella could not know the woman's thoughts. And now she, nor anyone else, ever would. But Johnny's thoughts were telling enough.

Wrapping fingers around the Cuban, he smudged it out on a crystal ashtray. The clatter of heels scrambling on a wooden pier. He removed his fedora and ran fingers through slick, dark hair. Flashes of wind and mist as waves crashed against the rocky terrain. He leaned in close to Ella, one hand coming to touch her fringe-clad knee. The white moon casting long shadows on the dock. He licked his lips, stained and smelling of smoke. Heavier footsteps coming to a halt. He traced a finger along the edge of her jaw. The click of a pistol being cocked.

Ella closed her eyes. Johnny was too close, and his thoughts were even closer. He didn't have one of his hires do the dirty work. She was seeing it happen through his own eyes.

"She misses you, too." This time the lie was not for her client. Johnny didn't deserve the courtesy. The lie was to save herself. There was no telling what Vivian Patzer knew about her husband’s dealings, but Ella would not be the one to deliver that news. Johnny could think her a fraud now, but that was better than him realizing she knew the truth about Vivian’s demise.

His fingers sliding down Ella's neck, gripping her arm, pulling her close...

No longer concerned about his late wife, Johnny’s thoughts had faded into something else entirely. Ella took control, placing both hands on his shoulders. She stood up and leaned in, whispering into his ear, "Please leave your payment on the table." She moved back before he could reach for her. Striding forward, Ella pushed through the curtains and stepped into Soma.
It was almost disconcerting how easily Alasdair fell back into Mac.

The Lieutenant had been silent within him for almost a decade, swallowed within the reality that the War was over and Alasdair was left to face a very long life alone. They offered him higher to stay – pick your rank, Captain, Major, Lieutenant Colonel, whatever you want – but he’d turned them down and gone home to Woodhull. A home he’d barely seen before the Great War took him away again. Alasdair had pushed that part of him aside. Compared to the Wolf, Mac had been easy to control; he’d never troubled Alasdair again.

Now Alasdair realized it had been a ruse; Mac had just been waiting, biding his time, preparing for the attack. He should have known – the War turned men into survivors, and survivors into craftsman of necessity – but Alasdair was surprised, nonetheless.

“Wilkins!” Mac barked, marching down the hallway with Will and Hassan in tow. “How many telephone lines do we have in this wretched mansion?”

The Butler matched his master’s easy stride; after decades with Wolves, a man learned the cadence, if not exactly the speed, of his lupine masters. “Three, sir.”

“Good.” Mac nodded. “Tennant! Mahmoud! Go with Wilkins and contact everyone you can. Assure anyone who agrees to join us their travel to Baltimore will be covered. But they must be willing to move immediately. If gods are going to be running around, we have no time to waste.”

Hassan’s answering mutter sounded as though he had whispered it directly to Mac. “Yes, sir!” There was no rancor in it. The Wolves were all like Mac; the military was in their blood and at the heart of their bond. Command came to a Wolf as easily as air to lungs; even more so to an Alpha.

“No need for sirs, Mahmoud…” Alasdair shook his head and paused, letting his comrades catch up. “Forgive me. I seem to have kept the worst parts of being in command…”

Will chuckled. “I’m just glad Lord Woodhull hasn’t gone soft.”

“That’d be a sight,” Hassan replied. “Good ol’ Mac, gone all Dapper Dan?”

Alasdair snorted. “Me? If they didn’t have to, I’d never be let into any joint that didn’t get their gin out of a bathtub around back. Good ol’ Georgie – God save him – could barely keep a straight face when he confirmed me as Lord Woodhull. Of all the Wolves to survive, it wasn’t me they wanted.”

Sadness sunk into him like molasses, turning the world into sludge. It made him an easy target for the guilt that invariably followed to pick off an easy target. Alasdair’s easy smile – crooked and just angling into mischief – melted away. “Well, then. Moving on. How many of the old crew are you still in contact with?”

Hassan shook his head. “Out in the deserts, we are basically marooned. It’s almost two hours’ ride by camel to a train station, which we then have to take to Cairo if we want even a telegraph.”

“Hmm…” Alasdair glanced at Wilkins, who’d melted into the shadows behind him. The man was unobtrusive even by Wolf standards. “Whose information do we still have, Wilkins?”

“George still works down in Poplar, sir. And Graham is in Edinburgh.”

“John is in Chicago, last I heard, studying law,” Will supplied. “But that information is a few years old. I sincerely doubt our resident Fly Boy is happy doing that.”

“And Jacques is still in Paris…”

Hassan and Will held their breath at Wilkins’ mention of Jacques. Alasdair could hear their hearts speed, the stink of anxiety snaking its way through them. No one mentioned Jacques around Mac. Whether they agreed with it, or not, the entire Squadron had learned to keep their mouths shut whenever the Copier was concerned. No one judged the pain of others.

“Then get in contact with him, too,” Alasdair replied. His companions’ relief was practically palpable, setting his Wolf to scratching at his insides. “If we’re dealing with a god, it might be best to have a man on our side who can be killed multiple times.”

“That’s… four?” Will bit his lip. “Is that enough?” To Hassan’s answering eyebrow quirk, Will replied, “If we’re going to put our friends in danger because of my mistake, I don’t want it to be certain death because we were unprepared.” The pictures on the walls rattled slightly before straightening to perfection.

Alasdair reached up and rested a hand on Will’s shoulder. “If we add ourselves, Harry, and Franklin, that’s nine. Plus, I am given to understand Franklin’s been active in Baltimore’s more… unsavory scene. He’ll have feelers out that’ll be able to track Set better than we can. And, if I know Harry, that juice joint of theirs will have more protections on it than a Frau’s alter. It’ll be the perfect base of operations.”

“Not to mention the American… infatuation with weapons will make it easier to procure anything our abilities won’t cover,” Hassan added. “So… nine Supes, a joint no one can get into, and Franklin’s predilection for making people talk…”

Will nodded. “Well, then… let’s get on the phone.”

“Good. I’ll make arrangements for a plane to take us.” Alasdair gestured for Wilkins to join them. “Show Will and Hassan to the phones, Wilkins. And… would one of you let Harry know we’re coming? He’ll be more receptive and might even make an effort to prepare Franklin… provided he doesn’t decide to take joy in the awkwardness of our meeting unannounced.”

*****

Graham Campbell wasn’t bored. He wasn’t bored when he awoke each morning and shuffled his way through the city to his job at the institute. He wasn’t bored when he sat in his office there, creating and destroying poisons until he couldn’t be sure what exactly he’d created anymore. He certainly wasn’t bored when he waved goodbye to everyone and slunk back home to his sisters, who greeted him with gossip, a plate of something delicious, and their latest prospects for marriage.

After all, what was so boring about a life with good friends, loving family, and a chance to help the world be a better place? And who in their right mind would miss the Great War?

The Institute of Science, Edinburgh loomed behind Graham as he pulled his coat tight around him and glanced upward at the sky. A waning gibbous moon had already risen, greeting the setting sun like a scythe in the sky. It had been almost ten years, but the reflexive habit to check the moon hadn’t left him; Graham wasn’t sure it ever would. The Pack might have been the only one to fight, but they certainly weren’t the only Wolves out there.

Graham’s hands trembled inside his pockets, but it wasn’t from the cold. It was the horrors of War, Arabella whispered to anyone who caught him at it. If his Gift hadn’t kicked in… She could never finish the sentence. Beatrice always did it; Bea was a sight more clear-eyed than her younger sister, and harder to fluster. If his Gift hadn’t kicked in, the gas would have taken him. And look how the gas left other men feeble.

Graham was strong, Bea said, lifting her chin in defiance of any who would pity her brother; he came home a hero.

So it couldn’t be boredom tugging at Graham with every step, the urge to throw himself against the enemy once more burning within him until his whole body shook with the effort to keep sane. Perhaps he’d gone doolally; maybe the War really had stolen his wits. What else could explain the dreams? The exhilaration within them that his sisters took for fright, but was really mad furor and exultation.

He missed his brothers. His family of sweat, fright, and death. He loved his sisters, but the Supes were a brotherhood of suffering, a bond built from wading day after day into a swamp of death, shit, and degradations at which even Old Scratch would balk, and coming out the other side. A brotherhood of silent horrors dancing behind smiling eyes, and shared pains carefully ignored. Of laughter no one else could fathom and stories no one else could understand.

Graham had never lived so much as he had with them, when each moment was often the last. But he wasn’t supposed to miss it.

He wasn’t supposed to be bored.

“Graham!” Arabella greeted as he pushed his way into their shared home. “You’ve had a telephone call.”

Graham’s brow furrowed in incredulity. “A telephone call? From who?”

“Whom, darling,” Beatrice replied, wiping her floured hands on a towel. “And it was from someone named Has-san?”

“Mahmoud?” Graham tried to push down the hornet’s nest of excitement that exploded within him at the sound of the tough man’s name. Unbreakable, they’d called him, and he had proven to be; no one had ever managed to lay a scratch on the man in the entire war. Everyone got a nickname – Toxin, Tremors, Screamer, Copier, the Howlers; Hassan was just Hassan, because there was no way else to describe him.

“I think so. He left a message. There’s to be a military plane waiting for you down near London… to take you to America.”

Graham reached out for the message; Beatrice would have written the whole thing down. Calling from Woodhull – that meant Mac! – there was an emergency, and the Supes were banding together to help one of their own. If he was willing, make his way down to Croydon Aerodrome, where he’d be flown to New York. Lord Woodhull – Graham snorted; Mac was always going to be Mac – would cover the expenses. The plane would be waiting for him in two days’ time.

“It seems I’m going to America.”

Arabella gasped. “Oh, but Graham! It is such a frightfully long journey. And who is this Hassan, anyway? How do you know him?”

“He was in Graham’s Squad, Bell. He’s a Supe.” Beatrice was already moving, bustling out of the kitchen and toward Graham’s rooms. If he was going to America, he would need a bag, and neither Graham nor Arabella were of any use when it came to packing.

“But why would you want to see them again, Graham? All those awful memories… and your tremor…” Arabella took Graham’s hands in her own, eyes tearing.

“Will only get better with them around, my wee Bell.” Graham kissed the top of her head. “And if one of them needs help, I owe it to them. These are the men who helped keep me alive.”

“Then you’ll want to book a ticket on the Flying Scotsman for tomorrow morning…” Arabella sniffed. “I will handle it. You focus on preparing whatever you need; Bea and I will take care of everything.”

*****

Jacques du Marnier came home to a packed bag, a hot meal, and a wife sitting anxiously before the fire. “Mon Coeur, whatever is the matter?” he asked, hanging his hat and coat on a peg by the door, and rushing to her side. “Has something happened?”

“Your friends are in trouble, Jacques. I have just had a call from a Dr. William Tennant from Woodhull Manor in England.” Renette’s brown eyes met his and she reached out to cup his face in her hand. “It seems they need your help.”

Jacques rocked back on his heels. Woodhull Manor? That meant the Pack. He winced. No, that meant Mac, who was the only one left. The specter of long-held guilt rose like bile in his throat and he turned away, walking to the other side of the room. “Why me?”

“I can only assume for your abilities, mon amour. It seems the nature of the assistance required is such that a number of your squadron are gathering.”

“Yes,” Jacques agreed, clenching shut his eyes, “but why me? Mac could barely look me in the eye after Ypres. And I can hardly blame him. His Pack was decimated there based on my information, and I woke up the next morning completely unharmed.”

“Ah, Jacques.” Renette stood and joined him at the window, her heels clicking against the wood of the floor. “Grief makes men mad. This… this is a chance to reforge your relationship. And, is it a guarantee this Mac will even be there?”

Jacques chuckled. “Oui. He is the Woodhull of Woodhull Manor. If the call came from there, it is a surety Lord Woodhull is involved.”

“Ah, but then, he has obviously not allowed the past to blind him to their need for you. It has been ten years, Jacques… a long time for a man to remain angry.”

“Ten years is not much for a Wolf, ma petite Cherie. And that is without us seeing one another. I would give whatever I have of myself to aid these men, but not if my being there will cause them pain. If the situation is dire, the awkwardness between us… it could be a distraction…” Jacques twisted the end of the curtain in his hands. “I’ve no wish to be in the way.”

Renette scoffed and tore the curtain from his hands. “If the both of you cannot act like men when your friend needs help, perhaps you should not go! It seems this Mac has moved on or, at the very least, is able to overlook his pain to help his friends. And the man I married would do the same!”

“Yes, dear. You are right.”

“I have booked passage on a flight from Le Bourget to Waddon tomorrow at noon. From there, you will have to arrange transport to Croydon, where a military plane will be waiting to take you to New York City the day after. I can only assume someone will be there to meet you. Lord Woodhull, I am given to know, will pay for your passage to America, and will reimburse you for our trouble in getting you to England.”

Jacques shook his head. “There is no need. I would pay for it all.” He kissed Renette on her beloved cheek. “You do more work than I, and I am more than one man sometimes.”

“That is because I am a woman, mon petit chou, and we are always busy. Come. Enjoy your supper before it gets cold. You will want a good night’s sleep before your journey. Dr. Tennant was not forthcoming on details of his problem, but I heard the panic in his voice no matter how hard he tried to hide it.” Renette smiled. “My superpower.”

*****

“George!”

A fist pounded on the door, but there was no one to answer; the room was empty. The bed remained, and a few possessions it would not have been easy to carry, but everything that could be shoved into a suitcase – and that was most of what the flat’s inhabitant owned – was gone.

“George!”

A few moments later, the door splinters open and a bruiser of a man charged in. He smelled of the docks, salt water and sweat and dirt, and the acrid stench of anger. They had a huge haul today and George never bothered to show up.

“George!”

But no one answered, because its inhabitant was already gone. He had left within moments of receiving the summons, shoving everything into a pack and heading for the bus. He hadn’t told anyone – there wasn’t anyone to tell, really – but the bruiser found a scrap of paper on the bed that read, “Croydon, two days. Will in trouble. Mac paying.”

George wouldn’t be coming back.

*****

Alasdair strode across the tarmac at RAF Kenley, his coat billowing out behind him and hat pressed low over his brow. He did not bother to hide that he walked faster than any human; everyone here knew him by sight. Though he rarely left Woodhull, when he did it was to join the airmen here; he had a fondness for the air.

“Lieutenant MacMillan, sir!” The young man who’d rushed out of the hangar skidded to a stop, throwing his hand to his forehead.

Alasdair waved away the salute. “No need. I’m here on something of a… personal mission. Who is your ranking officer?”

“Wing Commander Lawrence, sir.” The Flight Officer fought his salute. He was barely out of swaddling clothes, but he knew who Alasdair was; everyone in His Majesty’s Armed Forces knew who Alasdair was. He was the one who’d survived the War when everyone else in his Pack had died. They saw it as a measure of his skill, his bravery, his heroism.

Alasdair wasn’t brave enough to correct them.

“Good. Will you bring me to him?”

The young man nodded and spun on his heel, taking off at a half-run toward the hangar. Alasdair strolled, keeping pace easily enough without rumpling his suit. Lawrence technically outranked him, though Alasdair doubted the man would behave as such, and long-bred respect for authority forced Alasdair to incline to neatness before superior officers.

Wing Commander Lawrence was old enough that he’d fought in the War and Alasdair could smell the conflict in his blood; it never really went away. Graying around the temples now, he’d been grounded, given a desk command as a reward for his service. It was better than some; after the war was over, most of the Royal Flying Corps had been sent home. These days, the RAF was a token force; the peace was won, so what need was there of planes?

Some of those men had gone into commercial flying, ferrying passengers through the air for a fee, but most had left the air altogether. Alasdair wasn’t sure he approved; the Wolf in him couldn’t help but feel peace was never won, the next war was merely postponed.

“Lieutenant McMillan, sir,” the young man announced, a trembling salute pressed once more against his forehead. Alasdair could see the flash of annoyance in Lawrence’s eye at his subordinate’s lack of decorum, but the commander suppressed it.

“Lieutenant… what brings you to Kenley?” Lawrence glanced at the Flight Officer. “Dismissed.”

Alasdair waited for the Flight Officer to leave – he could hear the young man tear off at a run as soon as he was out of sight – before removing his hat from his head. “You flew with Corporal Hicks, I think.”

Lawrence reached out to shake Alasdair’s offered hand. “Indeed. Best damn pilot I’ve ever had the misfortune to bet against. Bastard never told us he was a Supe.”

“That sounds like him.” Alasdair smiled. “If you’ll excuse my unforgivable directness, Lawrence, I believe I shall, as the Yanks would say, get to the point. I need a flight to New York in two days’ time.”

“New York? Impossible! Everyone who’s tried has died in the effort.”

“Only solo direct flight; Alcock and Brown did it together in 1919. But, considering the heavier craft I’ll need, I am content with a stop in Iceland and Newfoundland. And I understand you’ll need to use Croydon to take off; they have the bigger strip.”

Lawrence frowned. “Why?”

“One of my brethren – one of your brethren, too, Commander – is in a rather large spot of trouble, and it requires myself and five of my fellow Supes to reach Baltimore as soon as may be. Nothing illegal, I assure you. And I am willing to make a substantial donation to your efforts here. I know the RAF has had come difficulty with acquiring funds from the Home Office.”

“Be that as it may, McMillan, we cannot simply land an RAF plane in New York.”

“Why not? Decommissioned planes flown by citizen pilots are used to make passenger flights all the time.”

Lawrence shook his head. “Not to America. We use airships for that.”

“An airship would take days. A plane can do it in a day. With stops to refuel in Iceland and Newfoundland, there can be no worry of distance or safety. Well, beyond the usual safety concerns with flying.”

“I’ll do it,” came a voice from behind Alasdair. Its sharp angles and flat vowels burrowed their way into his ears, following a path intimately familiar, though not often used anymore. Lawrence looked over Alasdair’s shoulder, his eyes lighting up as a viable solution presented itself.

“Say the Devil’s name and he appears,” the Commander sighed out, his breath sweet with relief. “Corporal Hicks.”

“Corporal no more, Commander,” John Hicks replied, walking around Alasdair to join the group. “Heya, Al! Long time no see.” John was the only person in the world to call Alasdair that name; it was one Alasdair hated, but Hicks’ stereotypical American perseverance had won out. Hearing it now was almost enjoyable.

Lawrence waited as the two men hugged. John’s frank openness and almost insufferable optimism made it impossible not to share his enthusiasm for the greeting. Hicks had always been able to get what he wanted; he was simply too likable to disappoint and too kind-hearted to ask for anything that would be a burden to give. Seeing him now, Alasdair felt his woes melt, his smile coming broad and lopsided once more. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“I felt the itch. One day, I just woke up and I couldn’t bear it anymore, so I joined a crew and popped on over, as it were. The missus isn’t right pleased, but she understood that I can’t give up the sky. No one who’s flown can. I’ve been at Croydon for two days now, but got a feeling I should come on down here this morning. Those old war instincts acting up, I guess.”

“They never leave,” Lawrence commented. “Not really.”

“What plane would you use?” Alasdair asked, eyeing Lawrence. War instincts went double for him. He had those he’d learned as a man and those he carried with him everywhere as the Wolf; it was in his blood too much to ever leave.

“How many people did you say?” John asked.

“Seven, including you as the pilot. I can be your co-pilot; I’ve the skill.”

John laughed and slapped Alasdair on the back. “And the eyes, too. The only people I’ve ever met with eyes almost as good as mine are you Wolves, I dare say. Well… in that case, Commander, don’t you lot still have an old DH.18 at Farnborough? Or, if you’re not comfortable with that, couldn’t Imperial lend you one of their Argosies? With Al’s proposed route, either would do just fine. With the old Daimler, I could say it’s an air test. And isn’t the RAF planning on scrapping the old girl soon, anyway?”

Lawrence narrowed his eyes. “You’re well-informed for a former American airman.”

“I keep my ear to the ground is all. So… the de Havilland or the Argosy?”

Lawrence glanced at Alasdair.

“My donation is the same either way, Commander. Enough for your repairs. I am fine taking the Daimler if it will cause less fuss with Imperial,” Alasdair replied to the question in the Commander’s eye.

“Then I’ll have someone from Farnborough fly her down. I’ll send another man with you, as well, to fly the old girl back to Canada when you’re done. Two days’ time? From Croydon?”

Alasdair nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ll see to it it’s done.”

*****

Baltimore was a hot city. Hot and muggy, stinking of shit and the harbor, all struggling to overcome the effluvia of the medical school at its heart. The fire in 1904 should have scoured the place clean, but all it did was invite vermin to populate the deep spaces the fire freed. It boasted of Poe and Babe Ruth, but, in reality, it possessed only the barest veneer of respectability in its upper class neighborhoods; the vast majority of the city was lost to criminals and the destitute. Its underworld could not compare with Chicago’s, but its hold was pernicious, nonetheless.

Graham held a cloth to his nose. “My but it don’t half smell. I can only imagine what yer nose is pickin’ up, Mac.” He glanced over at Alasdair, face contorted in disgust.

“It’s… difficult,” Alasdair replied. “But that’s to be expected from dock work. It would be much worse if we’d gotten here twenty years ago.”

“There are parts of New York that are worse, believe me. The immigrant slums’d give you nightmares if you saw ‘em.” Hicks strode at the head of the group, leading them into the Basin. Harry and Franklin’s club, Soma, was to be found there, hidden amidst the factories and docks where no cop would think to look. Prohibition was in full effect here in the States, but if anyone could run an underground juice joint and never be found out, it was those two.

Jacques shook his head. “It is a shame,” he began, his accent flowing over the English words, “zat there is so much suffering. Even here. Was not America meant to be better?”

John flashed the Frenchman a look. “It is a lot better than many places. But Americans are no different than any other people and the country suffers all the faults of humanity. The problem is that the people in charge are never the people who should be in charge. Anyone who wants power should never have it.”

“Amen,” Will added, from the back of the group. “If the Hun taught us anything…”

“Like ours were any better.” George’s gaze did not waver from the space in front of him as he walked. If his voice were not so distinctive, it would have almost been impossible to tell he spoke at all. “That was John’s point, I think.”

Their meeting at Croydon had been an easy one, all things considered. They simply gathered and fell in, the past few years melting in the face of their necessity. On the flight, there was some talk of what everyone had been up to in the intervening years, some pictures of spouses and children passed around, and updates on some of their fellow Supes who weren’t on the plane with them. No one asked Will what was going on and no one talked about the War.

They’d been through Hell together; there were some things they knew shouldn’t be brought up.

“No one is perfect,” Alasdair intoned, ending the conversation. It surprised him how easily the others had fallen into the pattern of his command. The war was almost ten years gone and thousands of miles had separated some of them; he had assumed the structure of combat would be broken. But in this, as in so many things, habit won out. He was Alpha; he had no choice but to command. And they were brothers-in-arms; they would need a commander. Even if it was just someone to speak for them when necessary.

Every one of them could sense this might be a battle, and a battle needed control.

“We’re almost there,” John said a few minutes later. “I haven’t been here in a couple years, since the last time I was in town, but they won’t have moved.”

Alasdair took a deep breath, swallowing against the bile that rose in the back of his throat. He had been in the country for far too long to be inured to a city’s onslaught to the senses. It would take a couple of days before he could thread through the constants and dismiss them; this was a perfect time for an attack. Hopefully, Will’s escaped god wasn’t following them.

“One thing,” he announced, breaking the comfortable silence (silence was always comfortable in war), “I don’t know if Harry has told Franklin we’re coming.”

Graham’s answering glance was sharp. “So there’s a chance we’re about to drop in on the Invisible Man… and the Flimflam daisy hasn’t told him?”

“Careful,” Hassan warned. “Harry doesn’t have much of a sense of humor about himself. He’ll be smiling even as the knife goes in.”

Graham shrugged. “Yeah, but he ain’t here to hear it, is he? And he is a swindler. Always has been, always will be.”

“It’s not the flimflam I think Hassan is warning you about,” Will replied. “Harry’s code of honor was never fixed; he’d redefine it to suit his needs. And his… predilections were never something he had any compunction about.”

Graham conceded the point. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we might be walking in there unannounced. Harry might be unpredictable, but he’s unpredictable in a… predictable way. You can count on him to do what’s best for himself and Franklin. But Franklin? The war didn’t leave him none too stable. Who knows what’s happened since then?”

“The war didn’t leave me stable,” Will reminded everyone, his voice quiet. “We should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“We should be prepared is what we should be,” Hicks intoned.

Alasdair nodded. “I informed Harry we were coming, so if Franklin does not know we are arriving, it is because Harry wanted to cause trouble. I only told you so you would be prepared for whatever reaction we receive.”

“I cannot imagine he would refuse his help.” Jacques wiped his forehead with his handkerchief; it was much warmer here than in his homeland. “Not when he has heard what is going on.”

“We’ll just have to find a way to make it seem worthwhile to the both of them.” Graham shifted his bag on his shoulder. “If helping Will isn’t enough, that is.”

“We will see.” Alasdair stopped as John reached a corroded door in the side of a nondescript building. It looked like it was barely used, but he could smell the oils that kept it from squeaking when opened. And, too, the tinctures and herbs used in protection spells; the police would never look this way and anyone looking to cause harm would be turned away. Harry would have spent a great deal of money to ensure only the right sorts found the Soma. “John… you know the knock?”

Hicks shook his head. “For types like us, it’s a demonstration of abilities. You might actually be best for this, Al.”

Alasdair sighed. “Of course,” he said, stepping up next to the American and loosening his stance. Hicks pounded on the door; three, quick thumps with the side of his fist.

A small panel in the center of the door opened. “Password.”

Alasdair shifted, but only part way. He had enough control now to only change his head at will, leaving his suit unrumpled and height intact. As a wolf, he was broad and muscular, with tea-with-milk fur dappled with black. His eyes stayed green and, as this was an off-moon switch, stared with human intelligence at the beady eyes peering through the grate.

“Is that enough?” John asked, raising a single eyebrow. “Or do you need to see all of us? The man behind you, skulking in the shadows… have him tell Harry his comrades from the war are here. He was told we’d be arriving.”

The eyes glanced nervously to their left – the grate was too small to see anything clearly, but Hicks’ sight was preternatural, stopping just shy of X-ray vision – and then the grate slid shut.

“I think you scared him, John,” Alasdair muttered after shaking his head free of the shift.

“I think you scared him. John just tipped ‘im over the edge,” Graham muttered. “When’d you learn to do that?”

“After the War.” Alasdair shrugged. “I had a lot of learning to do and a lot of time in which to do it. Wilkins helped.”

Will was one step away from gaping. “A veritable Anubis.”

“Probably best if we’re going up against Set.” Hassan’s reply was rather less awed. It took a lot to ruffle the implacable Egyptian.

Any questions the others had were forestalled when a bolt slid and the door opened. “You’re invited to enter,” a voice spoke from the darkness inside. “Mr. Harinder welcomes you to Soma and bids you make yourselves comfortable.”

George snorted. “He’s going to make us wait. Always did like his power games.”

Graham nodded his agreement, but did not speak as the men entered the club. Almost immediately, Alasdair’s nose began to itch, bombarded by too many scents for comfort. There were the herbs and spices of Harry’s native land, wafting indolently through the air in a complex melody of sex and intoxication. And the illegal booze of varying qualities, overlaid with halitosis and vomit. Gunpowder and magic tickled the back of his throat, mingling with misery, desire, and futile escape.

It was, all-in-all, like many such places, Alasdair decided; this one just happened to be run by a couple of Supes.

As they ventured further into the building, the sounds of jazz began to beckon, a slow seduction of syncopation and dulcet tones. A single voice, clear and deep in the way favored of such songbirds, danced above the whole, inviting its listeners into temptation and sin. She was good, Alasdair thought, knowing he could hear her better than any of his fellows; good, but young, and not nearly brokenhearted enough to sing this song. But there was skill enough to overcome the lack of sorrow, and Alasdair decided he liked the singer quite a bit.

“I see Harry had a lot of say in the decorations,” Hassan muttered. “There’s enough silk and satin in here to clothe a Turk harem for a year.”

Graham snorted in amusement. “Did you really think Franklin would concern himself with the fripperies? He’ll be the one bringing the product in, I wager. I’m surprised the place is as understated as it is. There’s good use of wood and metal here.”

“Franklin always was the only person in the world who could temper Harry,” Will said. “But neither were ever without restraint.”

The group agreed as they turned the corner into the main space. The scents and sounds from before slammed into Alasdair anew, this time raw and powerful. He raised a handkerchief to his nose, giving it some reprieve, but his eyes and ears were forced to endure the assault unaided. Next to him, John blinked. “It takes some getting used to,” the American muttered in his ear. “But there’s quiet corners that don’t threaten to murder your senses.”

Alasdair flicked his eyebrows by way of response and scanned the joint. It was larger than most, but smaller than some, with a dance floor and a series of nooks designed for comfort and privacy. He wondered how many illicit deals had been struck within the bosom of Harry’s nest. He wondered how many of them Harry had brokered. The man had no compunction using his gifts to manipulate; it was what had made him such an effective soldier.

Graham elbowed Alasdair. “Looks like Tennant is in love.” He tossed his chin toward Will, whose eyes, unlike the rest of the group, had not left a single spot. They were glued to the stage, where the singer still pleaded with her lover to return.

Alasdair chuckled. He and Graham had been close in the War and it was easy to fall into the old patterns. "She’s pretty. And fashionable,” he said. “At least he’s got good taste.”

“Oh, aye. He was always a man of exquisite taste. You think he realizes he’s staring?”

“He does now,” Alasdair replied, gesturing toward Hassan, who subtly bumped into his partner just enough to break his focus. “Look at him blush.”

Graham and Alasdair were still laughing when Alasdair caught the scent of their host weaving his way through the crowd. He turned and watched as Harry made his way toward them. The Indian had at least dispensed with his usual illusion and chose to greet his old friends as himself. Well, as much of himself as he ever showed; he kept his eye smoothed over, as usual, and whatever scars he might have carried from the War. In that, he wasn’t much different from the rest of them.

“Greetings, everyone! Welcome to the Soma! It has been too long since we saw one another!”

“Oh lord,” Graham whispered in Alasdair’s ear. “He’s playing affable. He didn’t tell Franklin.”

Alasdair nodded his agreement as he removed his hat from his head. “This is going to be interesting.”
Will’s blue eyes studied the room as the eyes of battle worn soldier’s always did; with trained vigilance and keen suspicion. A man in a silver jacket tugged at his sleeves, the cut of his jacket too slim to conceal a weapon. Another laughed too loudly, drawing the attention of the adjacent table. A third… William turned his face downward and shook his head, forcing himself to disengage. He had almost forgotten the stifling environment of being in modern society, how it clouded your mind and tightened your chest.

Hassan stepped close to his shoulder, the man’s hashish scented clothing standing out against the thick and perfumed stench of the room. His eyes were equally discerning it seemed, their dark irises partially hidden as he narrowed them, searching the room as William had done. Will cracked a comforted smile, his desire to retreat alleviated with the reminder that his eyes were not the only ones searching.

“Lovely voice.” Hassan murmured, acknowledging the song that rose above the quiet rumble. Will listened to the velvety tone for a moment before agreeing with a nod. “Poor creature,” He thought to himself, ”To be caught in such a snare as this.”
He could not see her, but his imagination put in her place any of a thousand other young ladies; having abandoned their dreams and their beauty to be gawked at by haggard old men. He could almost see the spark of hope in once bright, youthful eyes, dying out like final embers. At least she had Harry and Frank to keep the beasts at bay.

“She is quite beautiful.” Hassan added, nodding in her direction. “Reminds me a bit of…” He stopped suddenly and decided not to continue. Will moved around the beam upon which he had been leaning, and let his eyes fall on the stage at the room’s center.

When they found her they had no desire to move further. “She is indeed beautiful.” He answered, his voice almost reverent. She was not at all that tragic tale he had woven in his mind. This was no husk of forgotten beauty, no foolish and hopeless girl who had learned the world’s true and terrible face just to crumble before it. She was the image of immortality and innocence at once. A marvel not created from dust like the rest of the world, but chiseled from marble by the Creator Himself. She was perfection.

She lifted her intelligent gray eyes to meet his, their playful spark as sharp as glass and sweet as honey. ”My God woman,” He thought, a warm smirk for an instant replacing the stone façade he favored, ”with just a glance you have conquered me.”

He felt Hassan's elbow in his ribs and turned, his cheeks reddening with the realization that his rapture had not gone wholly unnoticed. “I did tell you she was beautiful.” Hassan whispered with a grin. William’s face returned to stone, his mind again on Set and violence and the chatter of gunfire. Perhaps her spell would not linger on him as he hoped it would. To be encased in that intoxicating perfume for more than a moment was to ask for too much.

“Yes, she is as lovely a woman as I have ever seen.” William answered quickly and matter-of-factly, his stoicism returning in full measure. He could never have her, he reminded himself... having never truly forgotten. Another lovely face drifted into his mind, its’ beautiful features pale in death as it had been in his nightmares for so many years. No, he would never have another after Emmaline.

But her presence, that glowing perfection that swayed with the beat upon the illuminated stage, was to be reminded that the world still had something beautiful in it. For that reminder, he supposed he was thankful. He turned his back to her, reengaging with the men accompanying him. His dream, would he allow himself to indulge in the sight of her again, would have to wait.

“Greetings, everyone! Welcome to the Soma! It has been too long since we saw one another!” Harry said with a charming grin, his flawless image having appeared out of the crowd as effortlessly as a serpent moves through water. He took each man’s hand in turn, his grip surely adapted to the preferences of each.

"Franklin will be along shortly, I’m sure, but it is best not to wait. If I can offer any of you gentlemen a drink,” He signaled to a waiter before they could answer, “I will have them bring something along. We will get down to business. Follow me.” He turned on his heel without another word, his immaculate posture producing an equally immaculate gate. Mac glanced over his shoulder, a knowing look cast to the others before he proceeded, a step behind Harry.

They were led into an isolated and surprisingly quiet room, its warm wood, intricate fabric and the lingering scent of smoke and bourbon keeping it firmly in tone with the rest of the establishment, though the air was much sweeter. “Reminds me of home.” Hassan whispered into Will’s ear as he passed by, an almost longing in his voice. It was distant already, that past life; sitting under the whipping canvas tents, breathing in the rejuvenating smoke as hashish, listening as the workers told ancient stories and sang ancient songs. They would need to remember again how to settle into this busy, bustling world.

The group settled into heavy wooden chairs with thick purple cushions, an eagerness in their faces to get down to business, regardless of whether or not they would allow such eagerness to be openly expressed. Will felt the knife of dread bury into his gut, pondering silently whether or not he could actually voice his request.

He crossed his arms over his chest, rolling his massive shoulders back as he took in a deep, slow breath. “If you all are ready, I will explain.” He said finally, his fine English accent suddenly sounding out of place in the presence of so many American ones.

The door beside Will creaked open, halting the story before it had begun. Harry beckoned the intruder in with a wave of his hand, and she appeared in the doorway, a silver platter in her hands.

“Forgive my interruption,” She said, her voice as velvety smooth when she spoke as when she sang, “I hope I did not disturb you.”

Will’s eyes remained firmly on the ground before him, raising only to nod respectfully as she entered. He would not allow them to dwell on her long enough to color his cheeks or quicken his heartbeat.

“Your timing is impeccable.” Harry answered her, waving her to place the platter, and the expensive booze arranged on it, onto the tables center. He turned to address the others. “If you will permit,” He eyed Mac and then William, “I would have Ella join us. I trust her inherently, and with this little gathering hinting toward a rather dire situation, I believe her knowledge of the issue would help, rather than hinder.”

Mac thought a moment, his eyes boring into both Harry and the girl as he pondered, before ultimately consenting with a nod. Will’s stomach turned and his brow furrowed, but he would not openly protest. “Then I will proceed.” He raised his eyes to meet the others, still avoiding hers. Where to begin?

He ran his hand over his head, ruffling his russet hair in that particular way that betrayed his discomfort. He saw two of them smirk at the gesture, the warm, brotherly smiles of those who understood him well enough to identify his mood by gesture alone. The familiarity did not make the statement any simpler. “What I ask of you is too much. For my sake, and for your own, consider carefully what you agree to do.”

“Get on with it, Will.” Mac encouraged, not at all harshly. Will nodded. “I request that you go to war with me once again, Gentlemen. In my arrogance and ambition,” Hassan shook his head as Will spoke, already eager to divert the blame from the young doctor. Will continued without acknowledging the gesture, “I have released a deity from his prison in Egypt. Set. The god of storms. I believe he means to bring about the end of things."

“And what makes you think he is capable?” John asked quickly, his keen eyes narrowing as his leaned back in his chair.

“He tore men apart in front of me.” Will answered.

“Forgive me for saying so, but I’ve seen you do the same thing, brother. As powerful as you might be, I doubt you could bring about the end of things all on your own.”

“Will is not like Set, John,” Hassan interjected, “These men were no threat to him. He took pleasure in it.”

“His brutality and his method were not the concern.” William answered, the images of the men he had torn to pieces alongside those Set had killed rolling through his mind’s eye, “His presence was that we felt at Verdun. If it was not him, it was one like him. I am not one to overreact, to tell you what is untrue to encourage a strong response, you know that.” He looked to his brothers. “If we do not stop him, I believe he will not stop until the world is consumed.”

“Explain carefully what happened.” Graham requested, “Moment for moment.”

Will related the details, leaving no gory detail, no admission of error and shame, left unsaid. He felt the room tremble beneath his feet as the story continued, and with a calming breath it ceased. “A tic. Forgive me.” He explained to the young lady, still not meeting her eyes. The others were, of course, already aware.

The silence in the room lingered a moment. "You always were too hard on yourself, Will." John said, breaking the heavy silence with that classic American grin. It appeared his mind was make up. "Worse you can take claim to is hiring some untested men. Lord knows I've done the same at least half a dozen times. Margie may not be thrilled about it, but I’ll help however I can.”

“You can take time to think it over, John, discuss it with her.” William answered, feeling the weight of his burden lessen for a moment, even if his guilt did not.

“Eh,” John waved dismissively, “She knows I’m up to something dangerous, and nothing can really divert me from that path once I’m down it.”

Will dipped his head respectfully. “Thank you, John.” Before the others had a chance to answer, he continued. “Please, sleep on it if there is any hesitation in you. It is late, and I know there is much to consider.”

The men nodded in agreement. Ella’s eyes, now fierce with something that was likely determination, narrowed. She leaned close to Harry and whispered in his ear, resulting in subtle nod from the latter.

Mac smiled from across the room, his wolf ears being the only set to pick up the whispered conversation. “We will discuss it.” Harry answered, turning slowly toward the others. “I will speak with Franklin and Ella this evening, and will have an answer for you tomorrow. Reservations have been made for you at Hotel Brexton. It is not far, and will accommodate you all well enough, I’m sure. We will call for a car, whenever you are ready.”

“I will give you boys a few minutes.” Ella smiled kindly, the fire in her eyes recessing, but not wholly leaving her, “Just holler when you’re ready for me to make the call.”

Without another word she disappeared through the doorway.

“Not like you to trust, Harry.” Graham said when the door was shut, an arched eyebrow in the shapeshifter's direction.

“Not much is hidden from a woman who reads minds.” Harry answered with a smile. Will rubbed his neck with a callused hand, the implications of this new information inspiring his pulse to quicken. “Of course she does.” He whispered to himself.

“It concerns me to have her in danger,” Will spoke frankly, feeling almost irritated with Harry for involving her, “just as it concerns me to involve all of you.”

A few others nodded, some were still too lost in their own thoughts to respond. “I will answer any questions you may have.” Hassan began, sensing his companion needed a moment to himself “and again, my brothers, feel no obligation to us, or to this task. Your loyalty has shown itself a thousand times before, and a choice to remove yourself from this will not speak to the contrary.”

Will nodded in agreement, clamping Hassan’s shoulder in thanks as he passed thought the doorway. In an instant he was in another world, again surrounded with the rumble of the Soma.

“I don’t think you’re as much a villain as you paint yourself to be, Dr. Tennant.” Ella’s voice broke through the noise, stopping his escape mid-step. He turned to her, the corner of his lip lifting slightly as he found himself resigned to the fact that she had, and would continue, to dance in the deepest recesses of his mind. He would need to monitor his thoughts more carefully.

In his mind appeared an image of Verdun, of the trenches, of bodies and blood and mud, of Emmaline’s deathly pale lips, of his family, of his hands pressing into a wound that spilled his friend’s life in an unending stream of crimson.

His smile disappeared. “I appreciate you saying so, Miss. But for your sake, I ask...my mind is not a kind place to be. I would not wish for you to see what I have seen.” He answered, scolding himself for his lack of control.

Ella’s charcoal rimmed eyes were filled with tears, but she allowed her warm smile to linger all the same. “The more you fight the memories the more they come. And you should know, I spend a great deal of time with Harry and Franklin. Yours are not the first images of war I have seen, Dr. Tennant, and they will certainly not be the last.”

“I would spare you all the same, Miss.” He answered.

She shrugged. “Call me Ella, and if it’s alright with you, I much prefer Will.”

He smiled slightly and dipped his head in consent. He appreciated her kindness.

“It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Will.” She produced her hand and he took it, the feeling of her skin electric in his hand. Without being able to stop himself he put her porcelain skin to his lips, allowing himself only an instant to linger. “The pleasure is mine, Ella.”

She beamed a moment, before waving him off, a hand set on her hip as her eyes scanned the now busy bar. “Best go enjoy your cigarette, Will. They will not wait long and something tells me you need it.”

He obeyed, and quickly made his escape, soon surrounded by the warm and balmy night. He drew in the evening air, letting the relief of his confession ease the tightness in his shoulders. It was no longer his to carry alone, regardless of what his brothers chose.

He felt a heartbeat before he saw the man appear from a distant alleyway, his gate familiar, though a bit unsteady. The shadow reached deep into its pocket, fiddling with a small case. A cigarette was produced and clamped between two rows of pearly teeth, the shadow now patting down pockets in search of a match. Will smiled, the form now near enough to be recognizable. The doctor ignited the cigarette from 10 paces, halting the figure in a moment of contemplation. "Tennant?" Franklin asked into the darkness.

"A pleasure to see you, Frank." Will answered. His old friend produced another cigarette, and taking the steps required to close the gap between them, presented it to Will. He lit it like the first and placed it between his lips.

"Harry didn't tell me you were coming." Franklin said after a moment of silence, the two men having stood shoulder to shoulder, content without any further pleasantries.

"I’m not alone. Mac and the others are meeting with Harry now." Will answered.

Franklin dropped his cigarette and smothered it with the tip of his shoe. "Best I join the party." He answered, disappearing into the Soma without another word.
Geysers of flame exploded from the first floor windows of the Beacon, bits of glass hurdled through the air as a curtain of flame engulfed the street below; Ben had done his job well. Franklin shoved the thoughts from his mind; their replacement was a cold clarity of purpose. Franklin rested the Thompson on the raised edge of the roof and centered his aim on the double doors.

The first to stagger out was a man in a white jacket and black slacks; a revolver clutched in his hand while the other grasped his head. Franklin aimed low and squeezed the trigger, the heavy .45 caliber bullets that spat from the muzzle stitched a line from his groin to his sternum; he fell to the ground with a shriek.

Two other guards staggered out from the doors as civilians pushed past them in a mad frenzy to get away from the flames and death inside the establishment. With no clear shot through the civilians, Franklin stayed his finger. He moved into a low crouch with a huff of annoyance and moved to the fire escape, the steel rungs quickly gave way to the wet asphalt of the ground.

The scene that greeted Franklin when he peeked around the corner was nothing short of hellish; the shards of glass from the windows had cut down anyone outside like a scythe: throats slashed, eyes gouged out, and entire limbs quite detached from their owners who lay whimpering on the ground.

Franklin almost dropped his Thompson, he hadn’t seen this much blood since the Great War and never from civilians…he hadn’t even realized they were on the opposite side of the street.

I killed…innocents. The shocked thought rolled through his mind, smothering all else. In all his jobs against the scum of the Baltimore underworld he had never killed an innocent and now…they littered the streets like so many stacks of cordwood. Franklin raised his Thompson with shaky hands as the wail of sirens became deafening, his target was the white-jacketed guards formed up outside. Now a total of nine, they all had revolvers out and seemed to be clustered around a man in a black suit in a protective posture. Bingo!

Franklin knew he had to be management of some kind, he wouldn’t receive that kind of protection from the guards otherwise; his furious pointing and screaming only served to cement his role in Franklin’s mind. He leaned back against the alley wall and popped his magazine, a fresh one soon took its place and the used one went back in his pack.

A few short breaths later and Franklin was ready; a second after that and he disappeared. Invisibility had been a great asset to him on the streets of Toronto before the war, in the trenches during the war, and it was working out nicely on the streets of Baltimore now.

Franklin aimed his invisible rifle at the group of guards around the manager and opened fire without warning. The guards were not expecting an attack from someone so close and it showed; five were dead before any of them had drawn a weapon, three more died as their revolvers cleared their holsters, and the last one snapped off a shot that missed Franklin by at least a foot before he too succumbed to the .45 caliber hail.

The manager lay gasping in a pool of blood, his and the guards’. One of the .45 caliber shots had hit him in the chest and blown the entire right side to hell, the exit wound the size of a coffee can. Franklin slung the submachine gun as he lifted his veil of invisibility and drew his Colt 1911, even near death the manager instinctively pushed himself away from the weapon. Franklin had never been good with words and he didn’t try now, without preamble he lined up the pistol’s sights over the manager’s face and blasted it into ruin.

Franklin didn’t stay to admire his handiwork; his short run brought him back to the alley where he started. He had only made it a handful of steps into the alley before the click of a revolver brought him to a halt.

How did I miss a guard? Even as Franklin’s mind grappled with the impossibility of it, his body reacted. He twisted to the side as he reached for his sidearm but he wasn’t fast enough, a bullet to the shoulder and another to his side sent him sprawling to the rough street of the alleyway.

***

“Tennent?” He called hoarsely into the darkness; it had been the first word he’d spoken in days. There was only one man that could light a cigarette without flame but he hadn’t seen Will since-

“A pleasure to see you, Frank.” The visitor confirmed his suspicions with a single sentence. Though Will and the time spent in war he represented wasn’t exactly a welcome sight, it was good to see a friend again. Franklin closed the distance between them, and offered another cigarette as a matter of courtesy.

His friend took the offered cigarette and lit it exactly as he had the first; a minute went by with only the silent puffing of both men, neither wanting to disrupt the peace of the night. Eventually Franklin’s desire won out and he turned to Will,

“Harry didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I’m not alone. Mac and the others are meeting with Harry right now.”

A spike of ice shot through him and buried itself in his gut, if all of the surviving members of the SSIS were here it had to be for a very bad reason. Franklin lamentably crushed the half finished cigarette under his shoe and turned back towards the Soma, it always pained him to see good tobacco go to waste.

“Best I join the party.” Franklin tried to keep his voice light but failed miserably.

The Soma was a rush of noise and light, an assault on the senses that Franklin had weathered countless times in the years he had run the Soma with Harry. The swarthy man seemed to feed off the atmosphere whereas it just left Franklin feeling tired. He gently shouldered through a cluster of customers and came face to face with Ella.

“Franklin how are you-“

“Where is he?” Franklin’s blunt question interrupted Ella’s, while the anger behind it gave her pause.

“Who?” She asked after a moment.

“Harry.”

“In the back room with the others but- hey, what’s wrong?”

Franklin resumed his push through the crowds without waiting for Ella to finish, his anger robbing him of good manners. It would be just like Harry to do this, to horde information, to play games with him…Franklin was in no mood to play games now.

Franklin’s shoulder and side were positively burning by the time he made it to the door but he pushed the pain to the back of his mind and gave the door a hard push. The door swung with enough force to strike the wall with a soft bang, in an instant he saw all the familiar faces clustered together in the room who swung their gazes to him: Mac the werewolf, Hassan the indestructible man, George the siren and all the others; but it was Harry that Franklin’s gaze zeroed in on.

“Frank, I didn’t know you were-“

Franklin grabbed a handful of Harry’s shirt and dragged him from the room without a word, a surprised yelp from the other the only sound. The door swung shut, and Franklin pinned his friend against the wall.

“Frank, what the hell-“

“You lied to me.” Franklin’s voice was tight but low with anger, he almost never yelled.

“I never lied to you!” Harry on the other hand had no compunction about yelling.

“Lying by omission is still lying Harry,” Franklin tightened his grip on Harry’s shirt and drove him further into the wall. “You never told me they were coming Harry and then I run into Will outside, lights my goddamn cigarette for me and says that all the rest are inside with you! You know how much I hate being blindsided Harry, especially with this!”

“You were barely lucid up there Frank,” Harry had stopped struggling. “Even if I had told you, you wouldn’t remember anyway.”

“False,” Franklin bored into Harry’s eyes with his gaze. “I was fine after the first day and you know it.”

“You’re right,” Harry’s gaze went to the floor. “I didn’t tell you because…because I knew you’d act this way, you’d want to send them home without hearing what they have to say. You’d want to bury your past again instead of confronting it and I couldn’t let you do that, not after seeing what it’s done to you once.”

Franklin had lowered Harry to the floor as he spoke and now studied him carefully. “We don’t keep this stuff from each other…ever.” Franklin emphasized with a pointed finger in Harry’s face.

“Agreed,” Franklin noticed a flash of something in Harry’s eyes as he spoke, anger, resentment? He never considered that it could be his own double standard with information that was causing it.

“Promise this won’t happen again.”

“I…promise,” Harry would not meet his gaze.

“Good, then let’s hear what ol’ Mac wants.”

“It’s not what Mac wants,” Will’s voice behind him almost made Franklin jump. “It’s what I want.”

Franklin turned to face Will and noticed Ella was by his side. “What you want?” His eyes narrowed.

“I’d be happy to explain it to you,” he gestured towards the door. “Inside.”

Franklin nodded and walked back inside the room.

***

“So, let me make sure I’m on the same page as you all…” Franklin leaned forward in his seat; the blade he had been twirling as he listened came to a stop with its point aimed at Will. “You, and you were digging up sand in Egypt and accidently let a god go free,” the point stabbed at Will and Hassan before it moved towards Mac. “They came to you for help, and so you collected: you, you, you, and you,” the tip jabbed at Hicks, Jacques, Graham, George respectively. “Then you all came here to convince Harry and I to leave the business we’ve built up here to come help you find this god and lock him back up. Did I miss anything?”

Will looked crushed, and Hassan distinctly uncomfortable. The rest of the squadron members sat around the room; their expressions ranged from troubled, contemplative, and amused. Jacques wore one of the latter, the wry smile obscured briefly as he brought a flask to his lips. “I would not say you have missed one thing mon ami,” the rich tones of his accent mixing with the rasp born of a lifetime of booze and cigarettes. “Except for the part where we all get riches and glory beyond our wildest dreams for defeating this god; the entire world will mark a celebration day on the calendars, and women by the thousands will beg to be our bedmates!”

Franklin snorted and faced Mac. “Where do you stand on all of this Lieutenant?”

“By Will and Hassan,” the wolfman’s tone seemed uninterested as he ignored the jibe, but Franklin knew better. “The same place everyone in this room should stand.”

Franklin bristled; it was all so easy for Mac, to drop what he was doing and run because he did nothing. Franklin suspected that he’d spent over a decade in his manor being attended on hand and foot, having his every need and want met; he had no idea that the world had just gone on suffering after the end of the Great War, it had only moved under a veneer of false promise.

Franklin bit back his retort as he saw Will’s face; he’d been a good man during the war: smart, honorable, and loyal to those around him; qualities that had now returned to haunt him in the worst way…laying the responsibility of the world on his shoulders. Franklin had wronged many men in the years after the Great War and not given it a second thought, but the idea of deserting this man when he needed his help most…

“You’d be crazy to sign up for a mission as suicidal as this,” Franklin sighed and broke into a grin. “It’s a damn good thing I’m crazy then.”

“Great!” Ella’s voice startled him; she’d been so quite he’d forgotten she was sitting with them. “When do we leave?”

Franklin turned his head towards her, slow and deliberately. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“Well…” she paused, clearly not expecting this kind of response. “I wanted to come and help out, and Harry said-“

“I said we’d discuss it my dear,” Harry replied smoothly. “Nothing more.”

“Why am I not surprised you encouraged her Harry?” Franklin’s anger grew as he rounded on his partner. “A mission of war is no place for a girl her age, you know that!”

“I’m not a girl,” Ella replied indigently. “I’m 22 Franklin, I can handle myself!”

“We can talk about this later Frank,” Ever the diplomat, Harry desperately tried to salvage the situation. “In private.”

“’I can handle myself’ she says,” Franklin’s light tone belied his intentions, and without warning he slammed his knife into the table hard enough to make it stick and vibrate. Ella jumped in shock and Will inhaled sharply, a sure sign he was angry. “Go on and take it then,” Franklin’s voice was deathly quiet. “If you think you have what it takes to go where we’re going, then take that knife and walk out into the Soma.”

Will spoke from across the room, “Frank-“

“Walk up to one of the patrons,” Franklin spoke over him. “Maybe even one of the regulars you smile at when you walk in the door; walk up to that regular…and stab him,” Ella gasped in shock.

“Franklin, enough.” Will’s voice came from behind him, strained from trying to hold in his anger.

“Not in the eye or head,” Franklin continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “But in the neck, right where the collarbone forms a little hollow. Stab again, and again, and again and watch as the blood gushes through your fingers, as it spurts onto your face and arms, and as the life drains from his eyes-“

”ENOUGH!” Will roared from behind; the room seemed to shudder, and the blade between them shattered into a thousand pieces as the man destroyed it with a thought.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath for a second…a second that seemed like an eternity. Franklin’s gaze had never left Ella’s, and he could see behind the mask of makeup and composure that she showed to the world that he’d planted the seeds of fear and uncertainty. Such a small taste of what they would be doing had left her shaken; he shuddered to think what the actual thing would do.

“Kill or be killed Will,” Franklin’s voice carried all the warmth of crushed ice. “That’s war, and make no mistake we’re going to war now. If you think I’ll let her risk her life on something that she has no stake in, or put all our lives in jeopardy with her inexperience, then you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Franklin pushed his chair back and stood to leave. “She’s not going on your fool’s errand Will, and if that means I have to stay here with her then so be it.”

Without another word, Franklin turned and walked from the room. He slammed the door opened in an explosive fit of anger and didn’t bother closing it behind him. He made it all the way to the porch outside before his composure cracked and he leaned on the railing, his breath came in a long and protracted sigh.

Scaring Ella had brought up an emotion that he’d thought buried a long time ago…guilt. Standing up to Will’s enraged powers had brought back the fear he’d felt in the Great War…the fear of death. Franklin had felt afraid of a man he had once called friend and a little betrayed…after everything he had been through, how could Will not understand that his crusade would be no place for a girl?

Franklin’s eyes prickled as the memory of his assault on the Beacon came back to him in a rush. Will’s mission might not be the place for Ella but it was the place for him…who deserved the fate of a suicide mission more than a murderer?

***

His shoulder and side screamed in pain as he rolled over the wet pavement of the alleyway and onto his back, the heavy Colt 1911 in his hand. The trigger gave way under his finger and the slide kicked back, a .45 caliber slug exited the barrel and lanced towards his attacker.

The trigger gave way a second time, and a third time before Franklin had time to process the results of his shots. The first slug had hit the attacker in his collar bone, the second hit the top of his throat and the third had missed completely and drilled into the brickwork of the building behind him.

The attacker left his feet with an unnatural slackness and flopped like a fish onto the alleyway, dead before he had hit the ground. A pained grunt escaped Franklin’s lips as he climbed to his feet and limped over to the body, a nice glob of spit ready to disgrace the dead man’s body.

As he drew closer Franklin realized that it wasn’t the white jacket and black pants of the Beacon’s goons, it was navy blue. With a mounting horror and heedless of his pain he flipped the body over: a row of gold buttons, a leather gunbelt, a gold shield, and a face preserved as a gruesome rictus mask of death, the age of which couldn’t have been any older than 22.

A pain like never before gripped Franklin, twisted his guts and made his heart feel like it was going to lie down and join the officer. He’d shot a cop…a boy out doing his job, his duty. Unable to keep his footing Franklin had pushed himself away from the dead cop on his ass, weeping. Unable and unwilling to grasp that he had killed a cop, Franklin had been about to hobble away when he heard a gurgle.

Against all common sense the cop lived, though it was more suffering than life. Franklin stared at the cop and stared at the still smoking gun in his hand, a sick understanding reached in less than a second. Franklin hobbled over to the boy and knelt down, his side burned as if run through by a hot poker. Tears streamed down his face as he leveled the gun at the boy’s head and pulled the trigger, the .45 caliber bullet put the pinkish-grey matter of his brain all over the street.

The sirens were deafening as he pulled his cloak of invisibility around once more, and disappeared into the night.

© Copyright 2015 Professor Q, Kat, Undead Detective, Alders, Aiken4LOTR, (known as GROUP).
All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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