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It was Hamid, informing us we had a visitor.
The GranitePaw messenger had arrived.
Ambitions
Kyle might have been a near-Elder Alpha, but he didn’t hold a candle to Sterling or Demetrius, in my opinion. He had the hands of an artist (or cosmetic surgeon), slender and deft, and each of his movements controlled and precise, and everything about him was calculated like the ticking of the watch around Sterling’s wrist. His hands weren’t calloused or chapped. His body was strong and fit under his suit, but I didn’t trust his rapier edge. Or Thessa’s cunning.
Kyle hmphed as he scanned the stitches in my face. “On a human that would leave a scar.”
If I was human, that might have mattered. My face was still a puffy, colorful mess, but I didn’t much care if the GranitePaw saw me like this or not.
“Professional interest. Stitches on a werewolf, even in human form, require a specific touch for the best result.” He unbuttoned his jacket and straightened his vest. His suit was almost as impeccable as Sterling’s—almost—and was a dark green chalkstripe that would have made Mint clutch his pocket square. Fancy brogues, though. I sensed the wolf’s taste was more in what dead animals he could strap to his feet than pelts he could wear.
We marinated in silence for five minutes. Neither male wanted to be the one to speak to the other. At this rate we’d be here until the sun went supernova. I had other things to do that didn’t involve catering to the GranitePaw’s whims.
Bored and determined to not let the MoonDark take me from myself, I said dryly, “We’re here as invited. If you want an apology for breaking that female’s arm, send her in so I can break the other one.”
Thessa laughed. “That was an audition.”
An audition?
Thessa started to tick off my merits as if they were some sort of shopping list. “High prestige, noble birth, survival instincts, durability, toughness, one of the top hunters of her generation, and if rumor is half-true, better training and more experience than a Chronicler’s apprentice.”
I recoiled in disgust. “I’m not some bull in a catalog.”
“But that’s exactly what you are to me. Rodero’s daughter should appreciate that. Do you think we want you two to join GranitePaw because he looks good in a suit?”
She gestured to Sterling, who did look panty-dampening-stunning in a blue suit featuring a pale pink windowpane pattern. The effect of the dark, but vibrant colors on his skin made him seem like the illuminated depths of a dangerous summer storm. A man’s suit game was a sophisticated battle of inches I was just beginning to understand, and like chess, was best appreciated by the experienced eye. Pocket square, no square, two buttons or three, notched or peaked, vest, no vest, vents, shoulders, button placements, and let’s not even get into the intricacies of pockets, pants, lining, ties, shoes, socks, watches, rings, cuff links, tie pins, tie clips, tie bars, and tie knots. The whole thing was whispered assertions and microaggressions.
Kyle’s suit said I’m not impressed.
Sterling’s said you should be.
Kyle pulled out his phone, scrolled through it quickly, then said, “Half the Elder Council doesn’t believe the population problem is as severe as it is, or that the lack of matriarch families is anything we can fix.”
“We can’t fix it unless you know how to transform human females into wolves,” I said, aggravated already.
“We aren’t exactly at that point yet,” Thessa corrected. “But we are on the brink, and if the Council keeps going the way they’re going, we will go over the edge. Without your father, the game has changed, although we never were going to count on your father. He was all growls and howls with the Council, but they largely ignored Rodero on this matter.”
Because he’d already burnt all that political capital twenty years ago.
Thessa’s little sales pitch continued. “Fifteen years ago we started to recruit mated pairs. Specifically mated pairs and focused on genetic diversity and specific skillsets within those pairs. The hope is that we will have enough genetic diversity that mates will be found within GranitePaw, and the species can survive at least here.”
“You’re turning GranitePaw into a genetic ark,” Sterling translated.
Thessa nodded. “More or less. Other packs are starting to experiment with genetic preservation, although none of them will admit it, even to their own members. We admit it openly.”
Kyle picked up the song. “We don’t just recruit bloodlines, of course. We plan on continuing to grow what is already a large pack. Resource strain is significant. I originally trained to be a general practitioner, but ended up going into cosmetic surgery because it’s lucrative. As Alpha, it is ultimately my responsibility to see the pack fed.”
The tribute calculations would put Sterling’s obligation to the pack coffers well into the millions each year. A pup could see where this was going.
Kyle went on to describe how the GranitePaw functioned: their living whole was divided into three distinct parts. There were wolves like Kyle, who went into professions the pack needed internally or were potentially lucrative, like doctors, nurses, accountants, or had specific duties within the pack, like the First Beta. The GranitePaw even had two chemists who worked on different MoonDark compounds, or medical research into trying to adapt common medications into things werewolves could better tolerate.
The second group were the wolves like Maya, who worked human jobs or professions that permitted them access to various aspects of human society. They might be photographers like Maya, or a wolf who worked dock loading, or a wolf who owned a restaurant. There were a few who worked as police officers, public defenders, or in the prison system.
The third group were the hunters, the scouts, the spies, the enforcers.
“What about the rest of our packmates?” I asked.
