Aralyn and Arwen yearn for freedom. Since the dawn of time those like them have been marginalized, exploited, repudiated, but now the time has come to change things, because no werewolf likes to submit, no man accepts slavery. Armed with tenacity an...
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Joseph had traveled the A68 with Kyle's last words tormenting his thoughts. The idea that his best friend doubted to see him again had put him in a sort of bad mood which, however, he was surprised to discover that was slowly dissolving, giving way to what he had not struggled to recognize as relief. Once he had taken the A1 (m) and passed Peterborough, even the pressure of being on a mission for Douglas had definitely given way to something else, as if he were simply taking a pleasure trip. If it hadn't been for the excessive traffic around London and a few incidents before Dover, which had given him too much time to think about what would await him once he arrived in France, he could almost have said he was calm. The more time he spent in the cockpit of his car, the more he felt the lack of oxygen in the lungs and so, even with the crisp autumn air, he had lowered the windows in the hope of taking in big breaths of air that could silence everything. Nothing however had served to reassure him, not even landing on the other side of the Channel - after all, willy-nilly, to find Arwen's Clan he would have to pass through the territories of many other packs, as in that case.
In setting foot on European soil, Joseph had in fact stirred up his senses: strained the ears, sharpened the eyes and opened his nostrils so much that he could guess what was hidden in the bags in the trunks of all the owners of the other cars that, like his, were refueling at the time. Even with the stench of diesel fuel to burn his nose he could smell the faint scent of an apple and, moving his gaze just over the shoulder, he then saw a child intent on chewing a slice with excessive greed. His sense of smell also perceived the fried and refried oil of a bag of freshly cooked potato chips, the sweet notes of chocolate muffins and even what, at first sniff, seemed to be brie cheese - and at that point, albeit unwillingly, it was not able to keep stomach rumbling at bay. He had left early, very early, and apart from two cups of black coffee he hadn't ingested anything yet, despite the fact that lunchtime had just passed and his body had sent him more than one signal. He pulled the pistol out of the tank and, glaring at the nearby refreshment area, told himself he could wait a little longer - the feeling of earning a stomachache was enough to convince him that he could take some mild hunger cramps -, so he got back in the car. Not many kilometers later and a few more minutes on schedule, Joseph sat down at the outside table of a nice little village restaurant. The exposed wood and a few red bricks to break up the white of the concrete gave the structure that rustic and reassuring aspect that, given the landscape, had convinced him to stop. Unlike Scotland, on that early Norman mid-autumn afternoon, the sun was shining enough to warm his limbs, the breeze drifted sporadically along the streets and houses, barely ruffling his dark, undressed mop. So far from the herd, from the offices of the Menalcan and with the excuse of that delicate mission he had been able to allow himself the luxury of not taking care of his look at all - or at least not giving it the usual care. No gel to fix his hair in an orderly fashion, no tie to tighten his jugular like a collar, no shirt or jacket to make him look like the usual dandy. At the outfit that Douglas loved so much, he had replaced jeans and a t-shirt, a vintage leather jacket and worn-toed combat boots, companions of evenings so far away in time that Joseph often wondered if they hadn't been just a figment of his imagination.
He smiled contemptuously at that thought, brushing his chin. There had been a time, years ago, when he had tried in every way to escape his fate, to renounce his duties within the herd, to get rid of his father's shadow, but in the end he, however, had to yield to the Menalcans. From that period he had tried to keep as little as possible, so as not to have to feel the bitter taste of defeat in the mouth, but among the things that had remained with him there were certainly those shoes, the jacket of an uncle he had never known and the indelible lines of ink that adorned his skin from the wrists almost to the chest and which, in a medieval style, told ancient myths - all things that at that precise moment, however, would have come in handy.
He absentmindedly dropped his gaze to what was placed on the table: an almost finished pack of cigarettes, a few crumpled receipts, a small bundle of crumpled papers and a wallet that he still struggled to keep in the back pocket. Things that, had it not been for that kind of report printed a few days earlier, could have led him to believe that he was not the heir to one of the most important clans in Europe - and above all that he had not proposed himself for a suicidal assignment. So, with the fingers he slid over the paper, following the dark letters and repeating the above data in his mind. In a maniacal order, typical of his father, information had been gathered about the latest sightings of the Lochlannach Clan, about its most active wolves, their way of fighting, on how many occasions they had come into contact with the higher-ranking members of the Menalcan family. He had to be sure to not waste too much time chasing and finding them, but he also had to be sure he couldn't be recognized by anyone - but aside from Arwen, who was the worst of it anyway, he didn't have to worry. Years had passed since their first and only meeting, both had changed, grown up; probably a vague memory of him remained in spite of what had happened and, for that reason, he had taken care of himself as best he could. In addition to the concoctions prepared by the old herbalists whom Kyle had defined as cailleach (hag), he had had soaps made from herbs that were able to camouflage both its scent and to partially alter the color of the hair once changed, lightening it slightly, and finally, he had procured false documents - in that way the chances of him being recognized became meager, albeit not nil.
He turned the page. Two photographs stood out at opposite corners of the sheet: above an imposing and bearded man, below a woman of the same size, so similar to him that she almost appeared masculine. Next to their faces were names: Garrel, the one who was reported to have been Arwen's right hand, and Freyja, under whose description was written, in bold, "deceased" - and a grin escaped from his clenched mouth.Already one less, he thought, moving to the next page and making eye contact with that of two other women with the same wording at the bottom of the report. It came naturally, therefore, to consider the fact that, probably, of all the werewolves grouped there, only half must still be alive. Everyone else, from one Clan or the other, must have been killed - less work for him, that was certain.
Joseph then spent another half hour leafing through the envelope, memorizing as many details as possible and, at that point, he got up. With a haste that he didn't really have, he picked up all his belongings, put them back in pockets, left a bill that far exceeded the expense of his lunch on the table and got back in the car. Carefully he placed the papers in the glove compartment, put the keys in the lock beside the steering wheel and pressed the clutch, making the engine roar. He hadn't planned to stay in those areas for too long, to be honest he hadn't even paused to look at how many bed & breakfasts were along the way because, for some strange reason, the idea of staying in Ophelia's territories had bothered him. Since the days before, when he had plotted his own route on a map hanging in the living room, stopping in France gave him the impression of having hounds ready to bite his ankles; and from the moment he sat down he felt that the longer he stayed there, the more chance there was of that suspicion to become a reality. Wherever his gaze had rested it seemed to him that he met wary faces and inquiring eyes, as if even old men from the village could be in the pay of a werewolf like Ophelia.
He shook his head, tightening the fingers around the shift knob.If he thought about it carefully, and put aside the paranoia that was slowly creeping into him, he would come to the conclusion that there was very little to fear; after all their packs were not at war, he would have been a useless target and the cause of a meaningless conflict, but Douglas, or rather Gabriel, had taught him one fundamental thing to survive in that world: never trust anyone, even certain allies - and since officially Ophelia was not such it would have been better to get her ghost off before it could somehow reveal itself in front of him: so much, for what he suspected and given the past between the two Clans, he doubted that Arwen could have asked her for hospitality. So he put the car into gear, turned his torso towards the rear seats and hit the accelerator as he pulled out of the parking lot.
That bastard could be anywhere, but definitely not there. The risk of being taken prisoner was too high, especially now that he held the Fenrir Dagger in his hands.
