“I keep thinking about Malachi,” I say. “The way we found him. All feral and violent.”
Omar bows his head. “Poor guy.”
“That’s how we were taught all rogues were. Feral. Dangerous. But he was only that way because of what happenedto him. And we were able to bring him back to himself not by reciprocating his violence but by trying to help him. Maybe we’re just jumping to conclusions about these guys too.”
He drums his fingers on the table. “You’ve been doing a lot of deprogramming on this trip haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And even before then.”
“Right. But you’ve been exposed to rogues before now. So have I. Hell, I am one. And still, there’s something bugging me about these guys.”
I look around the dusty camper van.
“I just don’t want to judge too quickly. We should hear what they have to say.”
“I agree.” Omar nods. “But we should also keep our guard up. Rogues as a whole aren’t what you learned about in your pack lessons. But that doesn’t mean they’re all good either.”
A dark expression has captured Omar’s face. I wonder if he’s thinking back to his time in Rogue City, and the wolves who branded him with their tattoo.
“Let’s see what they want and then we can decide,” I say. “If things get bad, we can always run back to the car and get the hell out of here.”
“Agreed.”
The sun is already down when there’s a knock on the door of what I suppose I can call “our” trailer. Omar and I took turns napping during the long afternoon while we waited, then sat in silence listening as the sounds of doors, and footsteps, and voices began to emerge.
“You boys ready?” Terrance says when we open the door to find him outside, no longer in his faux military getup, now wearing a loose flannel shirt and jeans.
We follow him back through the maze of ancient RVs toward the glowing orange light of a bonfire. Other wolves are making their way there as well, all of them men, in trucker hats and denim shirts with the sleeves torn off, or grease-stained T-shirts and tanks. The rogues are gathered around the fire, which sits a little ways beyond the higgledy circle of trailers.
Stopping a short distance from the gathering male rogues, we watch as they crack open cans of beer, patting each other on the back, waiting for something to happen. Off to the side a couple guys are throwing a football back and forth, and another guy is manning a grill, flipping burgers.
“Is it like a cookout?” I ask.
Terrance makes a low grunting sound. “Something like that. Come on, you don’t want to miss this.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder a little too firmly and leads us closer to the bonfire, where I finally notice a makeshift stage has been built out of old fruit crates.
After a few minutes, Gerald appears, emerging from the shadows and into the light of the fire to take the stage.
He holds his arms out wide and waits for the noise of the crowd to die down.
“Alphas!” he bellows, provoking a cheer and a sea of pumped fists all around.
But I shake my head in confusion. What does he mean,alphas? I glance at Omar, who shrugs, as lost as I am.
“My brothers! I thank you for gathering this evening. Tonight is a special night.” Gerald’s eyes scan the crowd, eventually landing on me and—did he just grin? “Tonight we have come together to solidify our power, to join the march of progress. And to take back our place in society.”
Another jolting cheer goes up from the crowd, making me flinch.
“How many of us have suffered under the weight of the tyrannical forces shaping this once-great land?” A cry of ascent follows each of Gerald’s statements. “How many of us have been persecuted by those lesser than us? How many of us were promised greatness and delivered squalor?”
After another almighty howl, Gerald holds his hands out flat to quiet the crowd.
“Tonight, gentlemen, that all changes.”
Every scruffy face is turned to Gerald, watching with undivided attention.
“You were all once great men. Alphas, leaders, the pinnacle of werewolf society.”
