Twenty Six year old Blake Hunter is the Alpha of the largest pack in the region. Finding his mate is the last thing on his mind.
But, in the midst of dealing with uninvited relations, aspiring future Lunas and increasing rogue attacks on his easter...
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Much to everyone's confusion, the invasion of Blackridge proved short and strangely anti-climactic.
The invading rogues had scattered themselves across the territory in small groups - each heading in a different direction, but with none of the organisation of previous incursions.
Blackridge had proven more than prepared for such an attack. In recent weeks, increasing their training and drills to such an extent that the quiet efficiency of those left in charge had calmed those prone to hysteria, and the evacuations had proceeded without the panic that had plagued the villages during their last encounter.
As each group was tracked down and subdued, the wolves confusion increased. It rapidly became clear that these pathetic specimens were the dregs of the rogue world. The Ferals, the weak and the fanatically desperate.
Blake stared at the growing pile of corpses on the pyres, each with their own three-clawed tattoo, and tried hard not to think about the look of utter desperation in their eyes as they'd attacked -- all that was left of their diminishing sanity. A merciful death had been the kindest thing he could offer them, but it hadn't made it any more palatable.
"Any ideas?" he asked the wolves gathered around him.
"Okay," said Alex, scratching his head. "If no one else is going to say it, I will. Is it me, or did this scream diversion to you guys?"
"But for what?" Issac sniffed, his nose wrinkling as the overwhelming smell of unwashed bodies drifted from the unlit pyre. "Wouldn't the whole point of a diversion be to lead us away from the pack, then take Blackridge while we were occupied elsewhere? All they did was bring us home."
Blake narrowed his eyes, nudging one of the corpses with his foot. "Any sign of the other symbol?" he inquired.
"Not even a whisper," Alex shook his head. "and we've searched each and every one of them. It just doesn't make sense. I mean, I know rogues aren't exactly civilised, but this lot were half-dead before they attacked us."
They were all dead once they crossed over our borders, Rothan chuckled.
You're laughing? Blake exclaimed incredulously.
What else is there to do? Rothan countered. All the other reactions are overwhelmingly depressing.
You're not helping, Blake snapped.
Was I supposed to?
"They had no help," Issac remarked glumly. "No masking spray, no poison."
No pheromones, Rothan reminded Blake with a shudder.
Blake felt his anger growing. They were right. This was never designed to be an all out attack.
You don't charge in unprepared if you expect to win, and you don't waste your best resources on something you know will be a failed venture. These pathetic wolves were nothing but fodder to whoever was running this show.
