Werewolf Moon (The Pack Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

Power of the Samurai

Pain shared is relief squared.

—Unknown

“Please introduce the other members of Pack Iwabari,” Itchiko asked courteously.

“Excuse my lateness in doing so,” Iwabari replied. “To my right is Tatsuo. He is as fierce and brave as the dragon for whom he is named.”

Tatsuo, a short man with shaggy dark hair and a nose that had obviously been broken as it hooked sharply to the left, nodded at Raya with a shy smile.

“My very round Alpha Choukichi is the Pack Iwabari luck, as her name proclaims.” He paused for a moment. “You do know that many Samurai change their own first names?”

Raya shook his head, surprised.

“They do so as a result of being honored by the shogun, changing religion—many adopted Buddhism or Christianity. And a Samurai always had one name he never knew.”

Fascinated, Raya asked, “How could that be?”

“The Samurai Death Name,” Iwabari announced with a smile. “It was given to him or her after death, and often was a spiritual name. More about Samurais than you wanted to know, no doubt.”

“Not at all,” Raya answered honestly. “Samurai have been known so long for honor, loyalty and superior warriors. How could I not be fascinated?”

“Can’t you see this poor woman is pregnant and needs to lie down?” Petra interrupted, taking Choukichi by the arm. “I’ll take her to the East Wing. No one’s staying there right now, so Pack Iwabari is welcome to it, if they agree?” she asked, looking directly at Iwabari himself.

“We are overjoyed with Pack Lupeinescu’s hospitality,” Iwabari said. “Chou, will you allow Petra to take care of you whilst we talk?”

“Of course, Bari. Come along to bed soon—it’s been a long day.” She sighed heavily. “A very, very long day.”

Petra led the tiny Alpha out of the room.

There was a not-uncomfortable silence for a time. Raya was overwhelmed by all that had happened in such a short time, and somewhat confused as well. How was it that they had offered their home to a completely-unknown pack, Samurai or not? His faith in Itchiko was absolute, but he knew there was more to this than the Japanese Were had mentioned. And he wouldn’t learn any more at this moment, either, as the new pack Alpha was at this moment sitting in one of Raya’s favorite chairs, smoking a favorite cigar. If this didn’t turn out well, Itchiko had a lot to answer for.

“Now that my Alpha bitch is out of hearing distance, there are matters we should discuss,” Iwabari said. “Her pregnancy makes her sensitive to certain matters.”

“Such as an upcoming war where we’re outnumbered four to one,” Itchiko pointed out mildly.

“I don’t get this,” Raya stated with no little anger. “Why would this pack of criminals come after Pack Lupeinescu at all? We’re not in their way: we never have been. As far as I know, our members have nothing to do with theirs, yet they attack us and declare war?” He shook his head, bewildered.

Itchiko and Iwabari exchanged a long look. Finally, Itchiko spoke. “Cavello Corporation is run by Italians. You are aware of that.”

“Yes, you told me that,” Raya said.

“Very powerful Italians whose main belief is in utter secrecy, total privacy—for obvious reasons. If it ever gets out who Cavello really is, their stock would drop like a stone...probably ruin them,” Itchiko said, watching Raya from eyes slitted with concentration.

“Makes sense,” Raya had to admit. “They sure wouldn’t want anyone snooping around, especially the paparazzi.”

“Exactly,” Itchiko agreed. “Now imagine that they made a major mistake in one of their largest industries, also something they made a major gamble on and invested far more funds than prudent—in the hopes of an enormous payoff. Now imagine that someone outed them to a newspaper: details of the fuck-up and all. Nothing is hidden anymore, so all they can do is damage control. Desperately clean up as best they can before they lose literally everything. Now think they might be a little pissed with whoever blew this particular whistle?”

“Of course they would, but they’ll never find out. First off, no one knows I know anyone in the media world. My guy has known me for years, but we’ve never even been seen together. And when we communicate, we do so with maximum security. Nobody could possibly be aware of our connection. And as far as any other notion goes, my guy would sooner chew his arm off than open his mouth because he knows it will come straight back to us and he’s rather fond of us,” Raya said with a smile. He pictured Pete kicked back in that enormous leather chair of his, sucking on a fat cigar. It really was time Pete paid the pack a visit. How long had it—

“Raya,” Itchiko said softly. “Something you need to see.” He slid a newspaper page across the table. “Read it, then we talk.”

There was no need to read as the lead photo said it all, Raya realized with a mixture of terrible grief, burning fury, and overwhelming guilt. The photo showed Pete’s office in the back of the Herald’s offices, and his tiny apartment above those offices. Raya had spent hours, days and weeks in enjoyable debate about everything from politics to racism. The entire building was now a burnt-out shell, smoke still rising from spots.

“Jesus H Christ,” Raya said. “It’s like I fed him right to those assholes.” He paused, thought. “When?”

“Three days ago,” Itchiko responded. “You truly had enough on your plate. If I’d have shown you this...”

“I’d have gone mad and blown the entire thing.”

“Then again, maybe not. But why disturb you when you needed a laser focus?” Itchiko asked.

“God, all these good people who worked for the Herald... including the crazy old lady that supposedly cleaned, but only did the same spot over and over again. Those Herald people weren’t your basic reporters, tell you that much. They kept that old lady until she died—just quietly hired a real custodian who wound up allowing Irina to sleep at his place. I can’t take this in, I really can’t.” He stood and began to pace.

“People like those Italians are exactly what their main business is: trash,” Itchiko said flatly.

Raya didn’t respond as he never heard the thought. His own were far away, as he began making plans at light speed.

Itchiko, whose eyes were still glued to his pack leader, finally relaxed for the first time in days. A brief cough brought his attention to his fellow Samurai, who had a very slight smile on his burnt lips.

Itchiko stared into Iwabari’s eyes until he was certain he had the Samurai’s full attention. Then he deliberately glanced at Raya and back again with a lifted brow. Iwabari maintained his smile and gave one sharp single nod.

That easily, a pact was made between two of the finest warriors, Samurai who’d been practicing and perfecting their very special art of war for centuries. Add that experience to the innate talent and power of werewolves, and suddenly the almost hopeless odds of several against hundreds become less hopeless. In fact, for once, those odds actually swung away from the Italians—something that had rarely if ever happened.

Then again, neither had a partnership like that which had just been forged in blood, pain, and brotherhood.

Raya was well aware that this war had only just begun, and that the opposition had much going for them including sheer numbers, tenacity, and the ability to hurt and maim with a complete lack of regret.

The Italians were formidable foes, beyond a doubt. And the next time they came for Pack Lupeinescu, they’d be better informed as to what they were up against: they never made the same mistakes twice.

How they would come was a mystery, but their arrival was inevitable, Raya saw that now. And they threatened everything that meant anything to him: his pack members, his home, his very way of life. If they succeeded on even a basic level, Pack Lupeinescu would be forced to live off the grid and move often just to remain alive. The members who survived that next attack, that was.

Raya was up and pacing without realizing he was doing so. The two Samurai sat and watched with their habitual patience, neither making a sound, both trusting that their Trans Alpha would come up with an appropriate response to what was really a military question.

Which was far more positive than Raya himself was, at the moment. Visions of that burned-out office, that odd plane as it rose into the air—death itself on wings, and the three frightened faces popping out of coffins. All played over and over in his minds-eye video.

One thing was certain, that those Italians were experts in death and destruction. Weres were experts in life and the living of it to the best of their abilities. Yes, Weres could bring war with ferocity, but what chance against a group this large, this loyal, and this lacking in any mores at all?

His eyes fell on the two Samurai seated at his table. Samurais were warriors beyond estimation, that much Raya knew just from his dealings with Itchiko. He now was almost certain that Itchiko had deliberately withheld certain things from the pack, perhaps methods sacred to the Samurai or those that would shock a pack of wolves.

He had to know if that was true, so he stopped in front of the table and looked at the two Weres. “Itchiko, truth now. Have you been holding out on us? Seems to me that Samurai warriors have ways and means of dealing with enemies that Pack Lupeinescu has never dreamed of or seen. That true?”

The Samurai slowly grinned, and it wasn’t a happy grin. It was full of sheer menace, and changed Itchiko’s face to something quite alien to Raya. “There might be a thing or two that never came up,” he admitted.

“Never needed to come up,” Iwabari clarified. “But now things have changed. We’re happy to share with you the fullness of customs we’ve learned and practiced for years, if your stomach is up to it.”

The slight challenge wasn’t lost on the Trans-Alpha. The grin he returned was no less frightening that that he responded to. “I’d say we’re about even in the stomach-turning department. There is much you don’t know about me, either.”

His grin dropped as a certain memory surfaced, something he hadn’t thought of in years and had hoped to have expunged from his mind permanently. The small movement wasn’t lost on either Samurai.

“Raya, if it’s anything that can aid us in this upcoming war, we need to know now,” Itchiko gently pressed.

“I-I don’t know if I can—that is, I’m not sure I can speak of it even now,” a shaken Raya admitted. He could barely stand to think of that day, one day out of so many centuries. But a day that would forever blacken Raya’s image of himself. He’d gone against everything he’d ever believed, and for what? A woman. But worse had come, on that one day when he’d felt a hatred beyond anything he’d imagined possible. He’d loathed that individual with an almost-physical passion: and every time the man laid his large hands on that woman in anger, Raya’s rage had risen. He’d been Were for only seventy years then, and was still unsure of right and wrong, still didn’t understand Were powers.

Until the day that bastard had knocked his female unconscious with one lazy fist, and Raya had literally seen red. He’d been seated halfway down the table, the bastard in his usual place at the far end. When the rage had hit, it had literally overtaken him: seeing red was the final stage. And when that had worn off, he’d seen something that had burned into his brain forever. The bastard slumped over onto his spilled beer, blood seeping from one ear, dead. Raya knew one thing: he’d done it. How he’d done it was a mystery, but killed a man he had done.

That’s when he’d recalled the fourth power of the Were, the one no Were will discuss. And that’s the day he’d realized that that fourth power was his.

Now, it took all of Itchiko’s Samurai abilities not to show the shock on his face. He’d never seen this side of his brother. “Whatever it is, it’s always best shared where others may aid in bearing your burden.”

Raya’s entire body shook like a wolf exiting a stream. “I can’t speak of it yet, I simply can’t. However, I can provide a small demo.” He turned on his heel and made for the stairs. Just before he took the first step, he looked over his shoulder at his two dearest friends. “Read the paper tomorrow.” On that brief note, he climbed the stairs and headed for the warmth of Petra’s arms.

Itchiko and Iwabari were left staring at each other, dumbfounded.

“Read the damn paper?” Iwabari spoke first.

“That’s what the Trans commanded,” Itchiko said slowly. “And he never commands anything without sufficient reason.”

The next morning, both Weres met on their way to the front door to get the paper. Neither had slept, waiting for this moment. Curious as hell, but also in the hopes that there would be something, anything that would make a difference in that shortly-upcoming war.

Once the paper was opened to the front page and set on the table, both Weres looked down and began reading. Within seconds they’d seen what they were both sure Raya had intended them to.

“About that last power werewolves have,” Iwabari began. “You ever known anyone who—?”

“No.” Itchiko said, his voice completely flat. “In all these centuries, I’ve never even known of a wolf who had that power.”

Both Weres went silent, reading the rest of that morning’s leading story. Don Gambini’s eldest son, his pride and joy who had been groomed to step into his famous father’s shoes and take over the family business, had suddenly dropped dead around 6:30AM during his morning jog. A robust man in his early thirties, he’d had no known medical conditions and doctors were at a loss to explain his demise. More information would hopefully be forthcoming after the autopsy was complete, the article said. In the meantime, the Don himself was in deepest mourning. A picture of a lovely mansion with black bows on the door and every window accompanied the piece.