Chapter 2: The Invitation

Chapter 2

Finlay

After more than a week in the wilds of the Bitterroot Mountains, Finlay crested the final hill and was home once again.

Everything was as he’d left it.

Except, he realized as he hiked closer, for the man lounging comfortably on his back deck.

“Evander,” he called out.

“Greetings, Alpha. ’Tis an honor to —”

“— Shut up.”

Evander’s laughter boomed and echoed in the mountainous terrain. He was a big man. Tall, powerful, and impossibly strong, even for a shifter. His coloring was much like Finlay’s: light complexions, freckles, and auburn hair.

While Evander’s eyes were brown, though, Finlay’s were a blue-brown mixture. People often mistook them for brothers.

They’d come from the same small town in the Scottish Highlands, where both their families had lived for as many generations as they could trace. And like Finlay, he’d been whisked away by what was left of their pack while the rest were slaughtered.

Evander was twenty-one when their home had been taken from them. Finlay was sixteen.

Finlay pulled his canteen from a side pouch and then dropped his pack. He watched Evander stand and lean over the railing. His old friend was casual. Calm. The wolf in his chest was quiet.

But Finlay knew he wouldn’t be here without cause. People didn’t make the drive up to his quaint A-frame cabin for fun, and certainly not for his company.

“What’s happened?” he asked through small sips of water.

“Why do you always assume something’s happened?”

“So this is a social visit?”

Evander snorted. “Fair enough.” His breath fogged the air as he sighed. “Perhaps you should shower first. Find some clean clothes.”

Finlay grunted but moved for the back door, through the workshop and upstairs, into the great room that encompassed the living area, breakfast area, and kitchen. His bedroom loft was another floor up and he didn’t stop in his ascent.

After his shower, Finlay took stock of what a week away had done to him.

His beard was unruly and far bushier than when he’d left, and his hair was a bit longer than he usually kept it, curling over his ears. Finlay trimmed the beard up but left his hair, opting to pull it back into a haphazard bun.

He pulled on a clean t-shirt and jeans and when he returned to the main floor, Evander was seated at the island, eating a sandwich.

“Hungry?” He pointed to an identical pb&j cut in half across from him.

Finlay picked it up and took a wide bite. He fetched a bottle of water from the pantry and braced against the island tiles, expectant. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“Everything is fine in the pack, as you well know.”

Finlay did. He’d feel it if any of his wolves were hurt or in distress. He took another bite.

Evander said, “They’ve asked me to raise the issue of borders again.”

“It’s barely been two months —”

“— With respect, Alpha, it’s been thirteen years. Being cautious in the beginning was an understandable measure given what we’d just been through. But now?”

“What’s the difference between then and now? We’re surrounded by wolf packs. Warm Springs, Deer Lodge, Hamilton, Butte, Missoula, and on and on and on. Vampires slink through the mountains and cities, snatching up meat for their covens as they go.”

“Fae and fairy-kind lurk under every damn rock in this place. Montana is a breeding ground for magic. A safe haven for the preternatural. Just the right mix of civilization and wild. Tell me, how do open borders keep our pack safe?”

Evander chewed slowly, eyes hooked at Finlay’s shoulder. He was Bitterroot’s Beta; brave, loyal, and strong. But he was second, always, to the Alpha. That they were friends did not diminish the strange magic that determined dominance and the hierarchy of the pack.

“I’m not arguing. I, more than anyone, understand your… reluctance. I remember as clearly as you remember.” He canted his eyes downward, to the counter, one hand curling around his water bottle.

“But. They’re getting restless, Fin. Wolves are not solitary creatures. We’re not meant to be alone. We have no children. No romantic prospects. The possibility of finding our fated mates is not unlikely, it’s impossible. They won’t remain this way forever. They can’t.”

“We’ll be opening ourselves up to more problems than we can handle.”

“What we lack in number we make up for in strength. One of our wolves is worth ten of Warm Springs’. Twenty of Deer Lodge’s.”

Finlay frowned. He remembered their original pack. His family’s pack. His father: more bear than wolf, hulking and fierce, a shock of red hair, all growl and scars and tall tales.

His mother: a true she-wolf, regal, grace, strategy, and cool calculation.

He’d had sixteen siblings, an assortment of girls and boys. All powerful like their parents. Aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins. Their family had ruled for centuries.

A pack of more than six hundred wolves. When he was young, he’d thought they were indestructible. That no one could overpower them head-on.

And no one had.

They’d used deceit. Had schemed and betrayed to their own ends.

More than six hundred wolves. A family more powerful than most of the packs in Montana, numbers or no numbers.

Finlay, two of his brothers, and sixty-four wolves were all that remained, whisked away to America lest they be killed, as well.

Sixty-four.

The horror of those last days in his homeland crept up his neck, hot and tar-like. He sucked in a ragged breath to dispel it. “We have a good thing going here. More money than we know what to do with. Land that’s untouched, unbothered, and ours. We’re safe. Secure.”

“What good’s a bunch of money, a bunch of land, when we’ve got wolves pining for companionship?”

Their numbers were pitifully uneven. They’d escaped the carnage with only eight women in tow. Four had paired up together, and the rest were uninterested in meaningless relationships when their fated mates were out there, somewhere.

Maybe. Finlay’s belief in that sort of thing had faded. It was all about survival now.

Survival, and protecting those that depended on him.

He’d vowed never to make his father’s mistakes.

Now, his pack was all but begging him to do just that.

Evander seemed to be following his thoughts.

“I know it’s hard. I know you’re just trying to protect them. But they won’t stay. Not like this. And without them, what will we even be doing here? What will be the point of it all? You’ll have dedicated yourself to their safety only to lose them, anyway.”

Finlay watched Evander’s hand disappear into his jacket and pull a thick envelope embellished with gold details and calligraphy from a pocket.

“This came while you were patrolling. It’s the perfect opportunity to lift the borders and enter the fold. We have plenty of space for fosters. Our wolves would be glad for the company… and the challenge.”

Fostering was a modern spin on old-world wards. One pack would send a few of their teens to summer with another pack, get to know other wolves, and learn the varying cultures, hierarchal differences, and disciplinary structures.

The Bitterroot pack hadn’t participated since their formation in America.

Of all the packs in southwestern Montana, Finlay’s territory was the wildest. Their quaint town center, Selway, was rustic and simple, their homes were spread out over nearly a thousand acres, and their only industrial footprint was the lumber mill and distribution center situated northwest of Selway.

It would be a great place for young wolves to learn to hunt, track, and control themselves. Finlay wouldn’t argue otherwise.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Fear was a cancer that had formed with the decimation of his pack and had spread, achingly slow, in the years after. Paranoia, a nasty territoriality, and an overprotectiveness he could barely manage made him difficult on his good days, and intolerable on his worst.

He knew this. Knew it, hated it, and was helpless to do anything about it.

Patrolling obsessively for days and weeks on end helped dull the sting of his flaws; expelled the worst of his anxious energy. Over the years, he supposed he’d become somewhat of a hermit, even among his own people.

He spent his days in the wilds, hunting, fishing, chopping wood, exploring, and learning the land. Distraction was a formidable weapon against an overactive mind.

But none of that could help him now.

“When do they want an answer?”

Evander smiled ruefully. “This invitation came early last week. Deer Lodge’s Alpha is getting married — you’ve been invited to his engagement party.”

Stress made his brow sweat. Fear soured into a nasty burn in his gut. “How soon?”

“The party is this weekend. Saturday.”

Finlay closed his eyes and tried to settle himself. His wolf rattled inside his ribcage. The loss of their pack had made the man mistrustful and cold. It had made the wolf pitiless. Violent. He rubbed a fist against his chest.

“Will you do it?” Evander wondered, watching him.

“It seems I no longer have a choice in the matter.”

This was answer enough.

His old friend stood and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go, then.”

“Go?”

“No admittance for flannel and plaid, I’m afraid. You’ll need a full formal getup.”

“Fantastic.”