“Yeah.” Keon was grateful to have Weston in his life. “I feel almost normal,” he confessed, relieved to avoid a long recovery. This storm required planning. A sip of soup warmed his heart, and he relished the familiar bone broth, his favourite as a child. It tasted exactly how his father used to make it. “I imagine we’ll be quarantined for the duration of the storm?”
Weston folded his hands on his lap, a sure sign he was nervous. “The Meskli has given orders for everyone to stay inside. He’s currently checking everyone is well supplied for a week, and informing his guard of the change to his schedule. I’ve given him the keys to the Pack-House, where he and his guards can stay until the storm passes.”
“Thanks, West. You’re golden.” The perfect Beta. Better than Keon deserved. Weston had no aspirations beyond fulfilling the duties of Beta, but he naturally placed the pack first in his thoughts.
His Beta flushed under the praise but silently returned to his reading, without comment. He knew better than to tell Keon it was nothing. He would never stop letting Weston know how invaluable he was.
Chapter Fifteen
Keon
THE DAY PASSEDquietly.
Weston read and asked Keon to approve paperwork he’d filed over the last day and a half on his behalf. Farley stopped by to mutter complaints about stupid people not heeding his warnings, and inform them he would be in the Pack-House until the storm passed. Keon had never seen the sky fractured this way, red peeking through the clouds. Something told him this wouldn’t be the single-day event of the last storm. Clouds lingering for two days, before sending frozen sheets of rain and high winds for six hours. No, this sky promised fury and chaos.
Despite having slept for two days, Keon napped when the urge came. He ate when Weston told him to and snacked on dried meat strips in between. If this storm proved dangerous, he wanted to be fuelled and rested. As Alpha, he couldn’t rely on anyone else taking care of the pack. This was his pack, his responsibility to protect and keep safe from even the Mother’s wrath.
At six o’clock, when Weston glanced out the window and shivered, Keon trekked to the nearest storage shed to gather supplies. Two sacks of tinned and packet foods from Dnara, dried and cured meats, and bottles of water. The sack dragged on the ground from the weight, but it was better to act before the wind rose.
The pack had started preparing for the rain seasons, most homes stocking larders and cellars in advance. The bunker beneath the podium had been the first they’d restocked, but Thatcher’s arrival had delayed the rest of Keon’s planned preparations. He placed a bag of supplies into the smaller storage shed at the far end of the village. The last went to his house. If the storm proved worse than anticipated and the storage sheds were damaged, he would have plenty of supplies between his home and the bunker to get everyone through the next week.
The wind swept through the village, an ominous pressure in the air. He got home, kicked the door shut, and let Weston help him arrange an emergency supply in the dining room. Moving their paperwork to the study, they dismantled the fold-away dining table to store in the study. With the floor space cleared, they prepared towers of supplies: towels, bedding, clothing, food boxes, and bottles of water.
Another storage hatch beneath the house should see them through the winter, but Keon would utilise it if necessary. As he passed through the corridor, a box in the study caught his eye, unchecked after Simeon’s death. Keon recognised the pale-blue ear loping over the side of the wooden crate and snagged his old teddy bear and childhood books to add to the storage piles.
They cooked a light dinner and relaxed into the living room to wait the rest of the night.
Eight o’clock passed without issue. The wind swept furiously beyond the door, wooden slats rattling in proof of how powerful it had become, but no trouble came to his door.
Keon read four chapters of a book.
Weston made cocoa at ten o’clock, and retreated to bed by half past, warning to wake him if needed.
Unable to shake the feeling something awful was on its way, Keon remained in the living room, concentration split between his book and the light rain pitter-patting against the window. The first sign of worse to come.
At quarter to midnight, he glanced at the front window, gaze drawn by a passing shadow. The village pitch black hours ago, movement in the darkness brought Keon to his feet, book discarded to the sofa. Edging toward the window, he pulled the curtain to get an unobstructed view, a glint illuminated by the first crack of lightning in the sky.
“Shit.” Keon walked to the door and threw it open to check it hadn’t struck a building or tree. A second strike lit the road outside his home, revealing the glint of a dagger held in a familiar hand. “Thatcher?”
“I need your help.”
Keon blinked, sure his shock at hearing those words from Thatcher matched the flicker in dark eyes from saying them. “Get inside.” He stepped back to let the man escape the rain and wind.
Thatcher marched into his house, pausing in the hallway to remove a cloak, tucking the dagger into the belt around his waist. Clearly not here to kill him. Keon didn’t have the patience to fight or recuperate in this weather.
Lingering in the doorway, he checked the sky to evaluate the lightning, relieved it crackled and buzzed but remained high in the atmosphere. Not close enough to strike at the village. He’d keep an eye on it, though. If anyone was in its path, they should be moved immediately. M’weko hated lightning. Singed fur was not a good smell.
Keon shut the door and gestured for Thatcher to precede him into the living room, grateful he was fully recovered and could enjoy a scotch to help him tolerate Thatcher’s company. “Drink?” he offered, crossing to the counter at the side of the room.
“No,” Thatcher replied casually, adding, “and neither should you.”
Right. Help. Keon perched on the sofa and indicated the armchair Thatcher hovered beside. “You said you need my help. What’s wrong? I expected you to leave once the challenge was resolved,” he said, sure Weston would have mentioned if they’d lingered.
Thatcher had the grace to flush as he glanced to the dwindling fire and sat. “My son required time to recover.”
“Of course. I only woke at four, myself,” he confessed, hoping it offered reassurance Usher would be fine. “Is this about Usher?”
“No.” Thatcher raked a hand through his hair. “My younger son has gone missing from our camp. He is infirm. He uses sticks to walk and isn’t capable of going far. I’m concerned he’ll come to harm if this storm proves as deadly as it looks,” he reasoned, eyes indicating anger where Keon expected concern.
