Sebastian Myron Archibald Greythorne III

I apologize for not being able to publish these past 2 days. My grandmother was in a coma and had to care for her. Also, after this week, I'm going to reduce the chapters from six (6) to five (5) times a week. Just so I can focus on my mental health and the health of my family.

...

There are many things in life that Archibald regrets. The Ancestor was one of them. In fact, it was the biggest one and the root of all regrets.

'To think that a person would inhabit my son's body and solve all my problems in one swift night. I suppose this is my comeuppance. All those people I killed, the people I left to die. Maybe if I wasn't such–'

"Archie?" Irwin's voice startled him.

The man who took over his son's body sat in front of him. Taking over his office, too, it seemed. Not that he liked doing paperwork nor putting in too much effort in dealing with the government and the firms they owned.

It has been almost ten years since they arrived here through Mayfair, having been exiled by the Men of Letters for breaking a sacred oath. At that time, he has had enough time to establish a repository of finance, law, and even knowledge.

New York housed Mossad, Neuman, & Brown, a law firm that handled all contracts and lawsuits filed against the family. They also used to cover up the Ancestor's and his pack's feeding habits, which, incidentally, was the single most expensive item in their monthly bill.

Since the Ancestor had died, there was a gap in their budget, which he had relegated to the firm's expansion. As of the start of December, the firm had increased its working force from 311 to 500 lawyers, clerks, paralegal, and a subsidiary small security company.

Los Angeles, however, was the headquarters of the clan's family office, the Iron Castle Management. It managed the various estates around the country and western Europe and the Greythorne Manor, as well as tracking and financing the Greythornes that broke off from the main family. 

"I, uh, the office just received your winnings from the World Cup." He informed Irwin. "Do you want me to transfer it to your personal holding?"

"That's alright. I have no use for it yet," Irwin replied before taking out a piece of paper with a familiar logo at the helm. "By the way, I didn't know we owned a private university?"

Archibald chuckled, settling in the chair's frame. "We don't. Merely a large shareholder on a number of them. Mostly around California and Massachusetts."

Although they don't completely own a university, Archibald had built a private library that stored most of the non-essential and non-important tomes, scrolls, and documents the family had stored for centuries.

Irwin nodded. "Interesting. Anyway, I asked you here because of, uh, the elephant in the room."

"I understand." Archibald said before sighing exhaustively. "I have many regrets… most of which ended when you came into our lives. I can't say that I forgive you–"

"I understand that." Irwin said.

Archibald smiled. "I can't forgive you because there's nothing to forgive. Richard died that night because I was too much of a coward to say and do anything. At least you had the balls to avenge his killer and make sure that his sister–my only daughter–is cured of the curse."

Archibald stood from his seat and circled the table to draw near Irwin, startling the poor man. With a relieved smile on his face, Archibald knelt down and enveloped Irwin in a warm embrace.

"I owe you a lot, young man." He said, gripping Irwin tighter. "I owe you things that I could never repay."

"A-and you shouldn't have to." Irwin replied with a stammer.

Archibald could hear the young man's heart beating wild. He knew how terrible it was to be reminded every day of your failure and mistakes, to live with it.

He removed the hug, wiping away the tears dampening his wizened face. He sat on the edge of the table, looking down at Irwin with a soft smile.

"I was never a good father. And for years, I thought, I never will be." He sighed. "Do you remember the reason why we came to America?"

Irwin shook his head. "I've always been curious."

"We were forced out due to, well, basically due to the advancement of supernatural technology." He said, chewing on the right words without overly complicating things. "In exchange for allowing us to exist within the country and holding properties and resources exclusive only to us, the Men Of Letters will take a dozen or so werewolves per generation."

"For experimentation?" Irwin asked, with a great deal of curiosity in his voice.

"Mainly, yes. Although it was inhumane, that was what the Ancestor had agreed upon a century ago. He knew that they could have decimated us and use us as test subjects, but, during that time, the British chapter was on the verge of desecration."

Irwin tilted his head. "Desecration?"

"It's the act of removing a chapter within a country, either due to a net loss or an immediate threat to the global organizations as a whole." Archibald wiped the sweat off his forehead, heart beating faster than he would like. "Do you mind if–"

"Please, make yourself comfortable." Irwin launched off his seat and let him ground into the office chair. "This must be hard on you? Years of keeping it to yourself."

Archibald barked out a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. "I braved the alleys of Istanbul and the ghettos of Poland, yet here I am, sweating my ass off a confession."

"Those two aren't exactly the same, Archie," Irwin remarked. "Most people aren't really good at expressing what they really feel. Not anybody can be Ella."

"That we can't." Archibald shook off everything that was affecting him by opening up a locked cabinet at the lowest drawer of the table, pulling out a bottle of 17th century rum and pouring himself two drinks. "Want some?"

"Don't drink."

"Good." He cleared his throat. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, the Men Of Letters experimented on our clan for more effective uses of silver. Apparently, silver bullets and blades aren't enough. But more than that, they investigated this effect of killing an "Alpha of a pack". Back then, we still used to think that Alpha's are created in normal wolf groups; it was debunked, but, given the convenience of the term, it's still being used by the global Men Of Letters."

Irwin's eyes widened for a brief moment, just enough for Archibald to catch its existence.

"I see that you're interested in this?" He asked.

"I am," Irwin said with candor.

"What they discovered–before we were exiled at least–was that every Pack Alpha is kind of like an amoeba. Unicellular organism that operates as a single cohesive unit. If, say a member of that pack–which we will call an Omega–leaves the group and infects another with a gift, then that person becomes a member of the Omega's pack. That Omega then becomes an Alpha."

"How does that translate to an amoeba?" Irwin asked.

"Well, like those nasty little buggers, The Omega carries a strain of the Alpha's DNA, but when he bites another person to turn them, that strain of the Alpha stays with him. Only the Omega's viral werewolf strain is transferred to the person, which then mixes with that person's DNA."

"So they each have a… unique DNA material even though that curse or, uh, gift came from the original Alpha."

"Yes." Archibald nodded, glad that his son understood his somewhat vague explanation. "I don't presume to know the advancement they made in their research, but that's what I inferred from what conversation I had with your–Richard's mother."

"About that. Who is she?" Irwin asked.

"Her name is… Alicia. She was a daughter of a Men Of Letters Elder, a Legacy, if you will." Archibald scratched the back of his head as he cleared his throat for the umpteenth time. "She took over her father's research and–ehem–we made contact after my stint in the Cold War–"

"Damn. You were in the Cold War?" A visible trace of excitement washed over Irwin's face.

"Well, uh, not that much. My unit and I just stopped a nuclear submarine from reporting that three of its cargo was missing before we retrieved it." A proud smile appeared on Archibald's face.

"No big deal, huh?" Archibald chuckled. "Why did Richard's mother not come with you?" Irwin suddenly asked.

"Simple, really." Archibald snaked down three shots of rum. "Because we hated each other."

"What?"

He shrugged, "We were in an arranged marriage. Richard is–was our child, but she hated me enough to not care about her own child."

"I see." Irwin sighed with irritation. "Well, if it's anything, Richard doesn't really remember and care about her. Just you, Peachy, and Ella. He also seems very scared of Lady Anastasia, doubly so."

Archibald barked out a laugh. "I forgot about that."

He never really had any meaningful conversation with his son or, should he say, Irwin. In truth, Archibald still felt a pang of sorrow whenever he gazed at his son's body being used as a puppet by a man he had known for less than half a year.

Perhaps he had always known, and that was why he had agreed to take a cross-continent trip with the rest of his family. Nevertheless, the man before him was not the son he thought he knew, but he never truly knew his son.

He was a bad father and a terrible human being. He could tell that Irwin thought of himself as one, too.

'Maybe God has given me another chance. Maybe this time, I wouldn't fuck it up.'