I sniff back any last breath of apprehension, shake my head a little to fling off the lingering nerves, and shut my eyes.
The hum of Omar’s singing-bowl vibrates through me.
Easily, I let my consciousness expand and find myself floating in a familiar black void. The Lunar Plane.
The electric-red veins of other werewolves appear, blinking to life all around me. And I begin my search.
Like a fighter jet I fly through the void, honing my focus, looking for the thread belonging to Walter. Finally, I spot something up ahead, a jagged vertical vein rising like a crooked tree or a zigzagging lightning bolt. I let the aura of it wash over me, feeling a distinctly slimy and discomforting sensation.Walter.
As I move closer the vein grows larger, until I can see it in intense detail.
What the actual . . . ?
His vein isn’t pure, vibrating red like the others, this one is twisted like a candy cane with threads of glinting black, seeping white puss. It appears corroded, infected, rotten.
Yep, that’s Walter.
I reach out with my consciousness, crackling red lines emerging from my fingertips, my eyes, and my heart, and connect with Walter’s soul.
The instant my consciousness connects with his, my body tenses, my mouth flies open in a pained howl. I feel like the corruption decaying his soul is infecting me, swimming in my blood, compressing my brain like a steel claw. But I can’t stop. I have to keep strong, power on. I can’t let him resist.
With a grunt and a cry, I push harder, sending more threads of myself into the ether, connecting in more places, letting the acid-pain burn every inch of my skin. All I see is blinding white-hot agony, and I scream and scream and push harder and strainuntil ... something pops, and relief washes over me like a cooling ocean wave.
I open my eyes, not in the real world, but inside Walter’s mind and find myself in a grand and old-looking library. It’s classic old-world New York, with dark wood stacks filled with leather-bound books, one of those awesome ladders with wheels that allow it to slide along a rail running the length of the wall. Wingback armchairs sit facing a roaring fire in a large ornate stone fireplace. A balcony, with well-trimmed hedges and demonic gargoyles, sits beyond three sets of double doors, and beyond that stretches the Manhattan skyline at night.
Walter can’t be in New York, but maybe this library isn’t a literal place, maybe it’s a memory. A mental recreation of his idea of sanctuary. I’ve never seen the Bridgerses’ penthouse in New York, but I imagine it has a stately library like this. It stinks of old money and old-world taste. A haunting tribal mask sits on a shelf staring at me, I turn from it and find myself facing a floor-length gilded-framed mirror.
I gasp and reel back in horror, because instead of my own reflection I see Walter. The graying hair rising like devil horns on either side of his head. The smug entitled grin he passed on to his maniacal son. His narrow form and curled shoulders that make him resemble Mr. Burns fromThe Simpsons. A proper cartoon villain, wrought in wolfy flesh.
Having recovered from my initial shock, I take a cautious step toward the mirror, lifting a hand to my face. Only, my reflection doesn’t match my movement, it stares blankly at itself.
A door opens behind the reflection of Walter, with a crack and a squeak. I turn in panic only to find the same door on my side still shut.
Back in the mirror, reflection-Walter turns to speak with the person who has entered.
“Carmine?” I say out loud, shocked to spot the alpha who I met just a few weeks ago at the packhouse. To my surprise, Walter in the mirror says Carmine’s name at the same time as me, only while my tone was surprised, Walter’s is casual, expectant. I keep quiet and listen as their conversation continues.
“I trust you weren’t followed,” Walter says, slimeballing to the max.
“Please,” Carmine says, his cool demeanor disconcerting. “You know me better than that.”
Walter turns impossibly in the mirror, while I remain staring through the glass.
“I do,” he says. “And I know you’ll come through for me when I need it.”
Carmine steps forward. “You can always rely on me and my pack.”
“Good, because I’m afraid the time has come for me to leave New York.”
“Things are finally in motion then?” Carmine asks, confirming that this isn’t something happening right now, but is a recollection of the past.
Walter picks up a crystal-looking chalice with a deep maroon liquid swishing in it and lifts it toward Carmine as if toasting to something. “Indeed. The situation with my son has accelerated our plans. The time has come to take out the alpha. But first I’ve planned a surprise for Jericho Junior.”
“The alpha’s son?” Carmine asks.
“Yes,” Walter responds, then sips his drink before continuing. “Jasper won’t be long for this world, which means I’ll need somewhere to make my base while I complete the formation of my Axis Pack.”
This must be a memory from right before Jasper was shot, while Walter was still situated within the Elite Pack, before we knew of his betrayal.
