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“This is so bad,” River said in a low voice as if he were afraid to break the stillness of the air.
“Not what you were expecting?” Bel asked.
“No. Not at all. We should be surrounded by pack members. Businesses should be open. There should be…life.”
Bel walked over to the telephone pole and pulled off a bright yellow sheet of paper. “I take it this isn’t normal either,” he murmured as he handed it over to Wyatt.
In large bold letters, the paper laid out some appalling rules such as a nine p.m. curfew and shifting permitted only during a full moon. Wolves could hunt together only in packs of four and required an appointed chaperone.
Albert was attempting to tightly control the entire pack. This was disgusting. A pack should want to follow its leader, to trust its leader. The glory of living in a pack was the freedom to shift whenever you wanted, to run with a large group of your brothers and sisters. To be a trusted member of their society. A wolf was driven to serve and protect its pack.
But this…this was a nightmare.
“What’s that?”
Wyatt looked up at where River’s pointed. It was an area that should have had picnic tables or maybe a flower garden. It should have been a place where families and friends gathered on a sunny Saturday afternoon to laugh and talk.
A thick pole stood at the end of the town square. From the top of the pole hung a pair of metal shackles.
“It’s a whipping post,” Wyatt growled. He’d never seen one in person. No, they were something from a completely different time when public executions and shamings were the norm. This was wrong.
It was a threat to keep people in line. Such a tactic was the first line of defense for a weak leader.
“Albert!” Wyatt bellowed, rage and disgust rushing like a torrent through his body. He turned slowly in place before the whipping post, his balled fists trembling at his sides. “Albert, you fucking coward! I’m calling you out! I challenge you!”
Stillness filled the air, as if the entire town held its breath. He could feel eyes on them. The pack had been watching him since they’d walked into the town, but now there was something more to their stare. He prayed it was hope.
“Albert! Face me, false alpha!”
The door to what looked like an old-fashioned general store opened, and an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair stepped out onto the sidewalk. His jeans were a little worn, but his flannel shirt was nice and neat.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the man demanded. His tone wasn’t exactly unwelcoming, just cautious.
“My name is Wyatt Campbell. These are my mates, River Stone and Beltran Varik.”
The man’s eyes widened and snapped over to Bel. “The vampire,” he breathed.
“Yes. Bel is a vampire.” Wyatt paused and dragged in a deep breath so his voice would carry well beyond the square to anyone watching them from behind curtains and through cracks in the door. “Albert Cartman has threatened my pack, attempted to frame River and me for murder, and he ordered an attack on our home during the daylight hours. His actions injured my mate, River. I am within my rights to demand justice. I challenge him.”
The man gave a little snort. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” He scratched his jaw and looked over the trio. Wyatt straightened his shoulders and tapped down the urge to step in front of both Bel and River.
“Gay wolves,” he murmured and looked over at Bel. “Mated with a gay vampire. Never heard of such a thing.”
Bel smiled at the man, his lips curling slightly, as if he wanted to expose his fangs. “Vampires are known for being flexible.”
A choking noise came from River, as if he were trying to smother a laugh, and the stranger’s lips twitched like he was trying to not smile.
“Where’s Albert?” Wyatt demanded.
The man gave a jerk of his chin toward the large house at the opposite side of the town square. The three-story white structure was ablaze with lights, while most of the town seemed dark. Compared to the decay everywhere else, the house was a monstrosity.
“Alpha’s house. You’ll find him there.”
“I’ll drag him into the square if I must.” Wyatt turned toward the house to make good on this threat, but the stranger’s next question stopped him.
“Are you going to be any better than Albert?”
Wyatt stopped and looked over his shoulder at the man. There were deep lines cutting through his face, and his shoulders were slightly slumped, as if worn by too much worry and struggle over the past several months. He’d likely done what he could to protect his family, protect the pack that he’d grown up with.
“I promise, I won’t be worse. There will be no more curfews, no more fucking forced sterilizations. And no more of that,” he snarled, pointing at the whipping post.
