Page 13 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“Shhh,” Sarah says, eyes darting to check for any passersby. She links her arm confidently through mine, and directs us away from the township. “Not so loud. But yes.”

I allow her to lead me in a bewildered sort of silence for a little while, noticing how she keeps sending furtive glances my way to take me in. Despite that I can see the thousand questions burning on the tip of the tongue she pokes out from between pursed lips, she says nothing.

Only when we reach a jetty, and are completely alone, does she say, “I don’t know how long we have, and so I need you to listen to me very carefully, Milo Tobitt. I need your help: the entire colony does.”

6

Operation Magpie

Rowan

“So…” Thriller begins, leaning through from the back with his elbows propped on Tuesday’s and Bear’s seats. “What I’m hearing is that we’ve got bugger-all intel.” He checks the point off by raising a finger. “That of the hundreds of threats the General gets from pissed-off Remus Wolves over what happened to his brother aeons ago, this specific threat is credible enough to send us…” He raises a second finger to join his first, then aims them like a gun toward the run-down-looking retail unit we’re parked in front of. “In there?”

“Aye.” I kill the engine.

Thriller blows out a breath, then a slow, creeping smile spreads over his face. Guardian’s eyes glow purple, and his strong hand closes over Thriller’s bicep. His powers temporarily alter Thriller’s brain chemistry to lower his threat perception—a bit like popping a couple of anti-anxiety pills. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative.

I catch Guardian’s gaze in the rearview mirror and nod my thanks.

But Thriller isn’t wrong. The Dogs of War have the highest level clearance of any werewolf military branch, so if there were any further intel to be had on this, we’d have it. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, and Delilah taps his on his laptop while he searches for the ownership, history, and blueprints of the suspiciously closed shop in the otherwise vibrant and bustling neighbourhood of Raleigh Court.

General Romulus and his twin brother, Remus, are the original werewolves. From them, all other werewolves descend, but Remus vanished some two thousand years ago and so the majority of modern werewolves are Romulan Wolves. Remus’s disappearance was never solved, however, and his descendants blame his brother. As such, there are hundreds of threats against the General each year, but given his longevity and protected status, very few are ever taken seriously. At least, in the ten years since I graduated from the military academy, there has never been this level of response to one.

“I don’t think this is Remus Wolves.” Bear’s quiet musing draws my attention. Smaller than us, he’s tucked into the far corner of his seat with his shaved head propped against the window, where he watches the locals buy their morning coffees from independent businesses. “This isn’t their MO.”

“Bear’s right,” Tuesday agrees, rifling through the pockets of his combat trousers. “For starters, those extremist Remus Wolves are always super noisy about anything they plan to do. They’ll even take credit for stuff that isn’t theirs—glory hogs. So they should be shouting about it from every available rooftop, but they’re not.”

Finally victorious in his pocket-hunting, Tuesday produces a squashed packet of cigarettes.

“I’m fuckin’ dying for a ciggie, d’ya mind if I…?” He indicates the busy street with a tilt of his head toward his window.

I nod, knowing full well he’s not about to bum a light from a passerby but go plant some spyware on our target building.

“Tuesday?” I call, right before he shuts the door. “No urinating in public.”

He turns, forearm braced on the top of the truck door, and salutes me with the hand that holds his smokes. “Not where anyone can see.”

Bear watches him leave. “You know, last time I found two sensors that he forgot to clean up?”

“Aye, it’s why I reminded him not to leave evidence behind where someone can see.” I turn to face Bear from between the front seats. “What’s on ye mind?”

His wolf is forward, making his eyes look almost white despite the shadow from his lowered brow. “All the intel anyone has on this operation is coming from the General himself. He raised the threat, and that’s why it’s being taken seriously. He pointed us at the witches, he instructed our Intelligence Corps to infiltrate their Council, and it’s he who’s directed us to this magical artefact that we’re now here to ratify.”

I keep quiet, even though I’d had the exact same thoughts when the General’s chief of staff called me personally to issue the Command Orders. Nothing about Operation Magpie is running through the usual channels.

Bear sits forward. “What was it you said Admiral Guerrieri told you when he called? That the General can’t describe what this trinket looks like because he’s never seen it? Yet he remembers the exact height, weight, and look of the witch who crafted it thousands of years ago?”

I huff out a laugh at how ridiculous that sounds when Bear rephrases it.

“Aye. She was…” I clear my throat and imitate the Admiral’s Italian accent. “Bellissima, long and flowing hair, silver, like the full moon in a clear sky.”

Thriller howls from the back seat. Horndog.

Bear scowls, then turns to face him. “Thriller,” he starts. “Do you remember Venice?”

Thriller smirks and leans back, dragging his palms up his thighs then biting his thumb. “Venice… I’ll never forget Venice. She was a fiend. I didn’t know whether to fight her or f—.”

Guardian’s grip on his arm tightens at the insinuation, and Thriller sits upright.