Farley must have balls of steel to walk into their territory.
He tutted and crossed his legs, resting clasped hands on his raised knee. “Such language. You know vampires don’t exist.”
“Excuse me, mighty Meskli,” Keon teased, knowing Farley would take it without complaint, “but they’re where the human concept of vampires came from. Shevoo fell through the doorway like locusts. Vampire, shevoo,they’re the same. Blood-sucking monsters.”.
The story was well known in Vihaan. Shevoo had evolved from a tainted strain of blood originating from the peaceful heecha. As emissaries of the Fates, who dealt in souls and the afterlife, their purpose had been twisted, resulting in the blood-dependent monsters they named shevoo.
“I see your point.” Farley hummed and twiddled his thumbs. “I had questions, after an attack on Katarina’s pack. The Elder, A’Lessi, proved it was perpetrated by a rogue pack member to frame the shevoo.”
“Ah.” How convenient to blame the shevoo, known for their violence. Keon poured two generous helpings of scotch from the tray of drinks on the coffee table. “You’ll be needing a drink.” He’d left two bottles of water, a jug of lemonade, and two tall glasses, prepared for any eventuality, but Farley was always a scotch man.
“Good man,” Farley approved, accepting the glass.
Keon gave him time to sip and sink into the seat, relaxing after his travels. Comfortable in the familiar atmosphere, Keon took a puff of his cigarette and brought them to the problem at hand. “I know Simeon was a piece of shit and he committed epic stupidity in his time, but I’ve no idea why Thatcher disregarded my offer,” he admitted, grabbing their copy of the note sent to Thatcher, and the note he’d replied with. He gave them to Farley, letting him mull them over.
Farley read and sipped his scotch.
As he read, Weston slipped into the room and gave an affirmative nod. Keon gestured to a seat. He’d been checking in with the boundary guards to get a current track of Thatcher’s movements. Whatever Weston found, the signal suggested Farley should know.
Farley folded the papers and laid them on the seat. When he raised his gaze, he blinked at Weston without recognition.
“This is Weston, my Beta and Beta to Alpha Grier,” Keon reminded him, happy to have a trustworthy man on his team.
Farley hummed in recollection, peering at Weston. “You started as an apprentice Beta to your father, didn’t you? Grier trained you?”
Weston beamed, thrilled to be remembered.
“Who else advises you?”
“No one,” Keon replied, taking another drag as he thought about who he trusted in the pack. The answer was shockingly depressing. “It’s me and West holding the fort.”
Farley steepled his fingers at his mouth, attention clearly focused inward. “Yes. Good. You’re doing fine work,” he said, gaze clearing as he met Keon’s. “I’ll confide in you because I know you. I’ve seen you at your best and worst. I know your dirty secrets. From sucking your thumb and chasing your tail to the messy business with Vega, I know everything about you. I respect you for how open you’ve been, for dropping your life in Dnara and returning without question or hesitation.”
Keon blinked at the unexpected praise, though a part winced at the reminder of his youthful indiscretions. Farley was right; he’d never kept secrets from his family and, despite his position as Meskli, they’d always kept in touch. He was like the crazy uncle who came by at family holidays, who made perfectly normal conversations awkward. “Tell me,” he encouraged, privileged to be on his list of trusted people.
“In the weeks prior to Simeon’s challenge, I discovered a disturbing secret.” Farley took the precaution of lowering his tone because of their excellent foame hearing. “Grier was going senile.” He sank into the seat, troubled by the revelation. “He was convinced members of the pack were influencing his decisions, using him as a puppet. He was beloved by the pack, had no proof, and didn’t recall some of our previous conversations, and I never took him seriously.
“After what happened with Simeon, it’s possible he was right. Simeonwasthe type to control people, underhanded and secretive. His influence over others made it possible to gain supporters who may have acted against Grier,” Farley admitted, the hindsight painful to consider. “He may have been telling the truth, begging me for help, and I did nothing. If I’d acted…” he lamented, clearly tormented by the idea he had failed to protect Grier. To prevent his death.
Keon shook his head and ground his cigarette into the ashtray. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. Simeon was unpredictable and reckless.” Folding his arms over his knees, he picked at a scabbed papercut on his wrist. “I have regrets, like not being here for Dad. Not stopping Simeon, or talking sense into him. Not babysitting him when he was being reckless. Not protecting Eliseo from his vicious possessive streak,” he confessed, meeting the Meskli’s unwavering gaze.
“The past is done. We can only try to be better,” Keon said, taking a deep breath to push aside the guilt. “I understand what you’re saying, though. No, I don’t trust anyone. It’s me and West.” He wasn’t ready to add others to his list of trusted advisors, yet. He’d been gone too long, distant from those of his age before he left, to know who to trust. Weston had been easy. His years of loyalty to Grier were unquestioned, and Keon appreciated his open, honest personality.
Farley cleared his throat. “Fine.” He downed the last of his scotch and placed the empty glass on the table. “I’ve got Alpha Thatcher’s side of the story, as ridiculous as it sounds, and I’ve seen your notes. Tell me exactly what caused this incident?”
Back on track, Keon felt steadier. More sure of the direction this conversation needed. Finishing his scotch, he spilled the tale from beginning to end. Including having no clue what this ‘sacred item’ was.
“Damned suspicious.” Farley reached for the table. Hesitating over the scotch bottle, he diverted to a bottle of chilled water, unscrewed the cap, sipped, and frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t like Thatcher leaving out details,” he complained, leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair to rub his chin.
“You know what they say,” Keon quipped. “Every story has three versions: mine, his, and the truth. It’s your job to decide what to believe.”
Farley snorted his displeasure, but glanced at Weston. “Take a note of this,” he suggested, holding his tongue as Weston grabbed a notebook from the side cabinet. “Alpha Farley, Meskli arrived on…blah blah. You know what to do. I’m here, we talked, onto the decision,” he recited, waving his hand in a vaguefill in the gaps.
Weston made bullet point notes as Keon spied over his shoulder. “I’m ready, Alpha. Sir.”
His stern face twitched into a half smile, as Farley took an official tone. “Alpha Keon,” he stated, so serious Keon couldn’t resist saluting the old codger. Farley rolled his eyes. “It is my duty as Meskli to inform you Alpha Thatcher has demanded a fight to submission. If won by his champion, you’ll return the sacred object stolen by Alpha Simeon, and surrender adequate compensation, in money or supplies to his pack for the emotional and physical damage caused by the raids led by Alpha Simeon.”
As soon as Keon accepted the terms, Weston scribbled furiously.
