----
Chapter 1
For going on a new
mission that involved one of the biggest werewolf packs in all of Somerset,
Bridgette Barker was remarkably calm.
Currently, she sat in the back of a black Ferrari, driven by one of her
associates, Clive Shereen, her ice-blue eyes glancing out the window as he
briefed her on what this particular mission entailed. Apparently, members high up in ranking in the
Sterling pack were accused of embezzlement of various businesses they were
associated with, as well as turning humans into werewolves without their
consent.
Bridgette worked for
the NDS – Nocturnal Defense Society – a government agency that regulated equal
treatment among humans, werewolves, and vampires. She loved her job, especially when she
brought someone – regardless of who that was and what race they were from – to
justice.
“The target is Marcus
Sterling,” he continued, causing Bridgette to rip her eyes away from the
scenery that encased the outskirts of Somerset.
The trees cast unforgiving shadows in the darkness, and not even the
glow from the moon could ease them up.
“The Alpha?” she asked,
furrowing her brow together.
Clive gave her a
mischievous grin. “Ah, I see you are
paying attention, my love,” he chided in what was supposed to be a charming
English accent. It was rich and clear,
like a church bell or a car alarm.
“Cut the crap,
Shereen,” she said, in no mood for his flirting. “I didn’t realize Sterling himself was up on
these charges.”
Clive flipped through
the sheets of paper in the manila folder currently residing in his lap. He glanced over at Bridgette from his seat in
the back and nodded his head, handing her a picture of the wolf in question.
“Apparently, he’s the
one giving the orders,” their driver and Bridgette’s closes friend, Kendall
Menton, said.
Bridgette
reached over to the compartment embedded in the driver’s seat, and pulled down
a lever that caused a flat tool case to spring down. In it, there were various tools and
contraptions, including a hammer, screwdriver, anything one might need to fix
something when they were in a bind.
Clive liked to work with his hands – in more ways than one, he would
keep saying with a wink – and always kept at least three different kits
somewhere in his car. He had the seats
especially designed for this purpose. To
Bridgette, it came off as rather flamboyant, but every now and then, like
tonight, it came in handy. She grabbed a
mini-flashlight and clicked it on so she could see the photos more closely. Tugging on her bottom lip, her eyes took in
the target. On the bottom of the photo, a name
was scrawled in Kendall's swirly handwriting: Marcus Sterling. He stood in front of his grandiose manor, his
hands clenched into fists at his side, as though he was trying to control his
anger. He appeared tall, probably a couple
of inches past six feet, and he had incredibly broad shoulders. In fact, he was
really strong, or, at least, looked as such.
He had thick, chestnut brown hair that was styled sort of like Elvis
Presley's hair, except it was messier and lacked gel. His sideburns actually
crawled down the side of his face until they reached the beginnings of his
chin, where a deep imprint rested. His lips were thin, pulled into a scowl, and
his nostrils were flared as his hazel eyes narrowed at something off screen.
What was he looking at? she silently wondered, twirling
the end of her ponytail around her index finger.
He was wearing what appeared to be a
white wife beater underneath a leather jacket with two thick yellow racing
stripes heading horizontally across it. Over the wife beater and under the
jacket was a brown vest, fitting snuggly on his broad frame. Jeans occupied the
lower half of him, while a brown belt wrapped around his waist and interlocked
with a golden belt buckle resembling those that were worn by cowboys from the
eighteen hundreds. And finally, on his feet, looked to be very worn brown
boots.
He looked… like a beast, Bridgette
finally realized. Even though he was in the forest like any lumberjack might
have been, it was easy to tell what his true origins were. He looked wolfish, ready to pounce at the
photographer. He must not like taking
pictures.
Bridgette flipped to the next
picture. This one was older, taken from
a different time. The edges were turning
yellow, and the corners were bent. The
picture was of a family painting, probably still in the Sterling family
today. Like vampires, werewolves were
immortal. However, a shot to the heart
with a silver bullet would kill them instantly.
It wasn’t uncommon to find members of a pack who have lived in Somerset,
since the town was founded in the early eighteenth century. Judging by this photograph of a painting,
Bridgette deduced that the Sterling family took shape around the same time as
Somerset itself.
The painting was of four people – a
husband, a wife, and two boys. Bridgette
could easily deduce who Marcus was, thanks to his unruly hair and the perpetual
scowl on his face. Next to him, a few
inches shorter, was another boy, with auburn hair and clear, blue eyes. Unlike Marcus, he looked much more formal,
with an ability to hold himself like he belonged to a royal family. And, being born into an Alpha family, he
really was. His shoulders were rolled
back, his chin was tilted up, and he was looking the artist dead in the
eye. Bridgette had to refrain from
flinching.
“His family?” she asked, looking
over at Clive.
He nodded, though his black hair
still somehow refrained from falling in his face. “His brother, Gerard Sterling. The Beta.”
“Is he part of this?”
“He left the pack at least seven
years ago,” Kendall responded from the driver’s seat. “Rumor has it that he didn’t like being
second to his brother.”
“Why? I thought that was wolf tradition, and all
wolves respected it.”
“There has always been sibling
rivalry between the two,” Clive said, taking the picture from Bridgette’s hand
so he could look at it himself. He let
his fingertips brush her skin as he did so.
“They both fought in wars together, beginning with the American
Revolution. Gerard always outranked
Marcus.”
“Just not where it mattered,”
Bridgette guessed.
“Exactly.” He handed the picture back to her. “So he left on some mission of his own. No one really knows why, but to answer your
question, no, he’s not thought to be involved.”
“The only thing we know of him is
that he’s very pro-wolf,” Kendall said, pushing the brakes gently to make a
left turn down a dirt path. “We have
pictures of him at rallies promoting werewolfism as the right species, the one other species should aspire to be.”
“Good thing he’s not around, then,”
Bridgette murmured.
“Exactly.”
“Parents?” She turned to look at Clive.
“Killed by a hunter about a hundred
years ago,” he explained. “The guy
thought he could make money on the mother’s fur – they were both wolves at the
time – and killed her instantly with a silver bullet. Father attacked him, got him pretty good,
until the guy killed him too.”
Bridgette pressed her lips into a
thin line. The story almost reminded her
of how her mother died. A vampire had drained
her when she was out shopping for groceries.
Bridgette had been eleven. He
just took her without asking, and then left her body there for everyone to see. It was why she was so intent to be an NDS
agent. To extract justice in a world
where vampires and werewolves roamed the earth, where humans weren’t at the top
of the food chain anymore. She wasn’t
looking for revenge, per se, but she wanted to ensure such a thing was never
allowed to happen again with repercussion.
The vamp had never been caught, either.
Bridgette was still bitter about it.
“We also want a Ryan Carlyle and a
Brandon Simon,” Clive continued as he handed Bridgette more pictures. “They’re the ringleaders of the
embezzlement. There’s a list of their various
cohorts, too, but Carlyle, Simon, and Sterling are who we want.”
Bridgette nodded her head as her
eyes skimmed the text, took in the information, processed it. Clive continued to talk, but Bridgette’s mind
was already planning the attack. Her
eyes went back to the window. It was too
dark to make out the forestry, which was a shame because it really was
beautiful, especially in the winter covered in snow. It was Bridgette’s favorite place to be,
because the city tended to get overwhelming at times. Now, it was intimidating, foreboding, warning
Bridgette away from their intended destination.
Why, she couldn’t be sure. She
had always been a top agent, and wasn’t easily frightened. But something about this mission in
particular had her senses on high alert, like something life-altering was about
to take place.
"We're here," Kendall
announced in her usual, soft-spoken voice. She turned around to glance at
Bridgette, her grey eyes pooling with concern. "Are you sure you're going
to be all right, Bridge? This isn't some wolf, this is the Marcua
Sterling."
If it had been anyone else voicing
their concern, Bridgette would have been offended. But Kendall was her friend
and was just looking out for her well-being.
"I'll be fine, Kendall,"
Bridgette assured her. "I'll have the team with me. I'll be
okay." She flashed a confident grin
and Kendall seemed to relax a bit.
With that, she and Clive exited the
car, leaving Kendall alone in the vehicle. Kendall was a driver, a transporter.
She didn't exactly fight, but she provided transportation to and from a
destination. She was the fastest driver Bridgette knew, and she trusted Kendall
immensely. Bridgette watched as Kendall
drove away until the black car blended itself in with its environment.
When she was gone, Bridgette
surveyed the square mansion with sharp eyes from her position. She and Clive were still a ways away from the
manor, but she knew the other two members of their team were already in
position on the opposite side, doing their own sweep of the grounds. It was necessary to do as much intel as
possible before making their presence known, especially since werewolves had
heightened senses. She could hear
someone stepping on tree branches as they circled the property – a guard no
doubt. And a lone owl pierced the night
with its melancholy cry. There were no
trees directly surrounding the place, which allowed the moon to hang low and
cast its light on the manor. It was
spooky, Bridgette realized, and a shiver slid down her spine.
The manor was white with three
stories. Thick pillars surrounded a wooden porch, and Bridgette noticed that
every single window was closed. She cocked her head to the side, looking for
any kind of entrance besides the door. If her mother was still alive, she
probably would have reprimanded Bridgette for not fully appreciating the
architecture of the house. If she had to guess, it was built in the early
eighteen hundreds, maybe even earlier.
But it wasn't her place to guess.
She needed to get this Marcus Sterling, and she needed to get him now.
No comments:
Post a Comment