CHAPTER 3

A constant banging on the door of Arthur's room the following morning made him crack an eye open from his sleep. He groaned as he rolled over on his back, facing the ceiling made of Lycoan murals telling a story. That painting had been made by his mother on his fifth birthday. One of her many talents. He could clearly remember her telling him that every great alpha needs to know his roots.

He had waved it off as one of those tall tales of hers—and boy, did she have many! Arthur had obediently admired the murals but never took the time to study them. He wondered again if his mother probably knew something about him, but waved it off. Because his mother was never one to keep things like that to herself.

She'd have tackled him during one of their training sessions, which she liked to call "spending quality time," and beat the truth out of him. She had instead taken his rather interesting questions about "really strong werewolves that were more human-looking and stronger than the average werewolf" as childish imagination and given him answers that, strangely enough, always worked out for him.

Another bang on his door made him shut his eyes tight at the strain his sensitive ears were going through, and he called for whoever it was on the other side of the door to come in. Although he'd have sworn that pounding could only be his father, his best friend was too busy getting mad at him over a little rumor he might have let loose around town. His suspicions were proven correct when the door opened to reveal his father, Jamil.

Arthur loved his father fiercely, but couldn't the guy wait till noon before barging into his penthouse this early in the morning? He hadn't been home and asleep for long after taking the girl home and laying her on her bed, and now this. Nope, his father needed to have a life, and that meant having a woman to warm his bed at night. No man would have time for his bachelor son with the legs of a woman wrapped around him. Arthur mentally reminded himself to speak to his maternal grandpa about this as he watched his father walk into his room in long strides.

The guy was one of Arthur's pillars of strength, and he aged like fine wine. Dude was clocking in at his mid-fifties, but one could never tell because he didn't look a day older than his thirties. He loved dressing in simple but expensive clothes and preferred sandals over shoes around his feet and a loose-fitting white shirt or tee tucked into his trousers or shorts, to sum it up. Jamil went straight to the closed curtains keeping the sun's rays at bay and began throwing them open, not minding his son's uncomfortable groan from behind him at the sudden onslaught of the sun's rays happily flooding in.

Arthur rolled back on his tummy and closed his eyes against the soft shine of the sun that streamed in through his door, which also doubled as a window. Jamil couldn't care less about Arthur's discomfort, or lack thereof, as he drew the curtains of Arthur's room open. He knew his son had a preference for fresh air over air conditioning, as shown by the make-up of his room. Arthur had personally torn down the walls facing the balcony with a sledge hammer when he was still a kid, enlisting the help of his two best friends, Peter and Gabriel. Then he went ahead and pestered him and his mother into changing them with sliding doors, which remained uselessly open virtually all the time, leaving the flimsy, light-weighted Arabian curtains dancing to the tune of the breeze.

He worried about his son every time it rained back when he was still a kid, but was surprised to find Arthur sitting casually in the rain. He'd have readily believed it if someone had told him Arthur was soaking up the rain, given how much his son never seemed to let go of the temptation to walk into one and enjoy the droplets on his skin. Jamil almost had a heart attack seeing him like that the first time he had noticed it, watching his son close his eyes in pleasure, as if he were one with the raging element.

But his wife had held him back and cajoled him back to their room when he was about to go and get Arthur from under the rain. He suppressed a sigh that was about to rise from his chest at the memory of Arthur's mother and slid the last curtain open. Done with his work of opening curtains, he stood back and admired the view of the city sprawled below Arthur's balcony. It reminded him of the animal kingdom bowing before Simba in The Lion King, as they should, because his son was the greatest king of them all. Jamil hid the faraway look in his eyes and turned back to face his son, who squinted at him with a sleepy face, smiled at him, and went to sit on one of the couches that lined up the huge room. fully aware of Arthur's suspicions, the eyes trained on him, and why that was.

Arthur's eyes never for once left him, because he knew his father. That man had itchy fingers for some of Arthur's inventions he was interested in, which he knew Arthur would not part with even if he asked. He could vividly remember the incident with Ariel. Ariel had been a therapeutic, responsive prototype of a robot made to look like the fairy version of his mother, which Arthur had made during one of those moments when he missed her terribly. One glance from his father was all it took for Ariel to disappear from his life and his room. But Arthur didn't have the strength to fight over Ariel with his father; besides, he knew how much his father loved and missed his mother. So he let go of the lifelike robot that his father now carried with him everywhere he went.

"Are you done mind-traveling?" His father asked, staring straight at him.

"Hmm?" Arthur asked as he quickly drew his mind back from its wanderings.

"You obviously are," Jamil concluded with a curt nod, staring straight at his son, his usual playful look nowhere to be found.

"So how did it go with Omar?" He asked.

"Omar's dead, and Cleopatra is sitting pretty in one of my mini-vaults." Arthur informed him, feigning a yawn to distract his father from seeing through his half-lie.

His father nodded and stood up to leave, but paused at the door.

"You know there'd be more like Omar coming after Cleopatra, right?" His father asked, turning to face him, with a tinge of concern evident in his expression.

Arthur deeply inhaled and exhaled, turning to face the ceiling, which seemed to have an encrypted message for him. He found himself curiously drawn to it these days and could have sworn the damn murals moved. But he pushed the thoughts aside and turned his head to face his father again.

"I know. "But they'd have to go through me to get to her," Arthur told him.

He half wondered if he should tell his father that Cleopatra had a part of his mother in it, combined with althruium, processed down to its explosive property, which made it what it was. But he chose not to, because he didn't want to worry the man further.

Jamil considered Arthur's reply, a ripple of unease growing in his heart as he did. He could sense that Arthur was holding back on something, but he also knew his son's abilities, so he reined in his worry. He had lost a pregnant wife; he couldn't lose his only remaining family and son too.

He sighed heavily, briefly closing his eyes. This was one of the moments it hurt to be a father to Arthur, because he had to watch his little boy grow into a man; it didn't matter if he was ready or not. But he wouldn't change his fatherhood to Arthur for anything in the world. He loved his son dearly, and if he said he could protect Cleopatra, it was because he could. With that, he turned around and left, before Arthur noticed the tears that had glossed over his eyes.

Arthur knew and understood his father's worry, but he also knew his father trusted him explicitly. He only hoped his father would understand when he found out the ring wasn't in a vault or safe but was with the girl from the night before.

He had been unable to control that impulse to slip the ring up her slim fingers, and it had been a perfect fit for her thumb. He had scribbled a note, which he left by her bedside, telling her to hold on to it for him a little while and that he'd be back for it.

Arthur only hoped he made the right choice, like he's always done. His instincts were always right, and they had pointed her out to him. So he took that leap of faith and entrusted it to her. Where better to hide Cleopatra than in plain sight, when everyone else would think he'd keep it locked in a safe place?

There was another use for that ring that no one else knew of, not even his father. Because he actually made it with his father's safety in mind. If handled right, it could give back a life lost. But if handled wrongly, it was a bioweapon more dangerous than the world had ever seen.

With that happy thought in mind, Arthur rolled off the bed and landed on the floor with a wince as he tried to stiffle a groan. He rolled over, facing up, his arms splayed about his sides as he mentally readied himself to face another day, acting as the puny rich kid of Jamil the vampire. He scoffed at himself and lifted himself off the floor as he headed for the bathroom.