Carrie #2
I had no plans to do anything else. My knees were useless. My brain had left the building.
He walked to the front window, stepped over the ruined corpse, and peered through the broken glass.
His posture was all tension and focus; even at rest, he looked ready to pounce, to kill, to die trying.
He swiped the blood from his face, then bent to retrieve a length of the dead man’s torn shirt and wrapped it around his left hand.
The movement was quick, methodical, almost military.
Then, as if on cue, three more shadows flickered into view on the veranda. These men didn’t hesitate or announce themselves. They kicked the door off its hinges and came in low, weapons up, barrels glinting in the lamplight.
The first one got a full two steps into the foyer before the naked man met him, bare hands against black rifle.
The gun went off, shredding a sconce, but the man was already inside the guard, smashing the rifle upward with his bandaged forearm and burying his fist in the assailant’s throat.
The man went down, choking, both hands at his neck.
The second invader went to fire but hesitated—maybe not wanting to hit his partner, maybe just shocked by the spectacle of blood, tattoos, and nakedness.
It was enough. My wolf-man seized him by the barrel, jerked it sideways, and brought his elbow up so hard into the guy’s jaw that his head snapped back, helmet flying, neck arcing at a wrong angle.
He collapsed, gun still spasming in his hands.
The third man tried to run. The wolf-man let him.
He watched the man trip over the splinters of the door and half-crawl into the kitchen.
I heard the scrape of boots on tile, then the telltale click of someone trying to chamber a new round with bloody fingers.
The wolf-man padded after him, silent and efficient, pausing in the archway.
A single shot rang out, splintering a cabinet and sending a hail of flour and glass across the granite.
The wolf-man flinched, then launched himself across the kitchen, slamming the man into the fridge with enough force to leave a dent.
The struggle was brief: two sharp blows, the sound of teeth snapping together, a wet cough.
The invader slid down the stainless steel, head lolling, hands clutching his gut.
The wolf-man stood in the kitchen, chest heaving, blood leaking from his knuckles and streaking his thighs. He looked back at me. “More?”
I shook my head. My throat wouldn’t make words.
He took a shaky breath and limped back into the living room, picking up a throw pillow to hold over his bullet wound. He looked around at the carnage, the blood, the ruined antiques.
“You got a phone?” he asked.
I nodded and pointed, too scared to move.
He found it, dialed with hands slick with red.
I heard him mutter into the receiver, voice clipped and efficient.
“It’s Shivs. Cleanup. Three minutes. You got that?
Bring Dementor from the Atlanta Chapter.
He’s got a bunk in the club.” A pause. “No, don’t patch it in. Just come.” He gave them the address.
He hung up and let the phone clatter to the floor. He looked at me, eyes softer now, almost embarrassed by his own nakedness. He wrapped the pillow around his waist, winced as he did.
“Sorry about your house,” he said.
I almost laughed. I almost cried.
He came and sat on the other end of the ruined rug, careful to keep the blood off the remaining furniture. “I’ll keep you safe, Ms. Stillwater. That’s a promise.”
We sat together, surrounded by the dead and the dying and the stink of spent adrenaline. For the first time in years, I felt a weight begin to lift—like I might survive the night, after all.
Outside, the sirens grew louder, then faded, like the world was spinning on without us.
I looked at the man—my wolf, my monster, my guardian—and let myself wonder, just for a second, what kind of animal I was turning into.
Then I realized the house smelled like copper and cordite and wolf sweat.
The silence was a living thing, thick as wet plaster.
I sat where I was, clutching a fireplace poker with both hands, until the tremors in my forearms made the metal hum like a tuning fork.
I’d have stayed that way until dawn if the naked man hadn’t started moving.
“I know how it looks,” he said.
“You mean fucked up?”
That got a hint of a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I need to find out who the fuck these guys are.”
He was efficient. No drama, no show. He went from body to body, stripping gloves, yanking up sleeves, checking for tattoos, scars, anything that told a story.
He found a wallet on one, thumbed through it, and tossed it into the empty space where a coffee table used to be.
Another corpse gave up a dog tag; he read it, grunted, and slipped it into a Ziploc he found in the cargo pant pocket of a guy from the first wave of invaders.
“You know who would send professionals after you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “What the fuck are you?”
“We’ll get to that.”
“Good.”
He knelt over the worst of the dead, the one with a neck like a ring of red ice, and pressed his thumb to the man’s eye, holding it open to check pupil response.
Even in death, he worked by some code. After each inspection, he rolled the body off to one side, as if clearing a lane on a busy highway.
I watched all of this, unblinking. The world had shrunk to a narrow, vivid tunnel: the sweep of his blood-slick muscles, the swirl of black ink across his shoulder blades, the way his skin knotted over old bullet wounds and knife cuts.
Every time he turned my direction, I flinched, expecting fangs or claws, but he never looked at me. Not directly.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a curtain and dialed the phone again. His voice was quieter this time, almost a murmur, but the words sliced through the hush.
“Canon, it’s Shivs. Job’s done. No survivors.”
Pause.
“Yeah. Triple confirm.”
Another pause. He met my eyes, just once, and in that split-second I understood: this was not his first living-room massacre. He’d done this before, would do it again, because it was his nature. I wondered if he hated it, or if hating it made it easier to keep going.
“I’ll make sure she’s somewhere safe,” he said into the phone. “Carrie Stillwater.” He smiled at whoever was on the other end.
He hung up, then kicked a stray shell casing across the floor. “Help’s coming. You want a drink?”
“Several.” The absurdity of the question nearly made me smile. “There’s bourbon in the kitchen. Unless you prefer—” I gestured at his wounds, “—something stronger.”
He shook his head, grabbed a rocks glass, and poured himself three fingers, neat. He raised it in a half-salute, then drank, eyes never leaving mine. “You did good. Not a lot of people could’ve sat through that.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” I eyed him hard and steady. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
He grinned, and for the first time I saw teeth—normal, white, slightly crooked, not a monster’s at all.
“You always have a choice,” he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I tried to stand, legs rubbery. The poker slipped from my grasp and clattered on the tile, loud as a gunshot. He came around the counter, careful to keep the ruined pillow between us, and held out a hand. I hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm, dry, warm. Human.
He pulled me to my feet, steadying me when I almost pitched forward. My knees wobbled, but I didn’t let go.
“What now?” I asked.
“Now,” he said, “we wait for clean up.”
“And after that?”
He studied my face like he was looking for a hidden message in the freckles. “After that, you’re under our protection. Royal Bastards don’t let anybody fuck with their own.”
“Your own,” I repeated, the words raw in my mouth.
He nodded, then poured another bourbon, this time for me. I took it. My hands were still shaking, but not as badly.
He sat on the barstool, bare thighs gleaming with blood and sweat, and rolled his shoulders, working out a cramp.
The light caught the tattoo on his left pec: a stylized wolf’s head, jaws open, the word FIDELITAS inked beneath.
I wondered what it would feel like to be loyal to something with that much violence behind it.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half hour, muffled by the splinters and the chaos. It sounded like a warning.
The wolf-man—Shivs, I reminded myself—looked around at the carnage with something like regret. “Sorry about the mess. Club’ll clean it. We’ve got a system.”
“What if there’s a next time?” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted.
He drained his glass and slammed it down, hard enough to chip the rim. “Next time, I’ll be ready.”
I believed him.
In the distance, a pair of headlights rolled up the drive, slow and unhurried, like they were early for a dinner party.
I recognized the rumble of a Harley engine before I saw the bikes.
A van followed them. Two figures dismounted the bikes, black jackets and helmets gleaming under the porch lights. A large man climbed out of the van.
“They’re not coming in armed,” Shivs said, reading my mind. “They’re family.”
I nodded, watching as the newcomers carried bags and toolboxes toward the door. One of them, shorter, lighter on his feet, turned to survey the treeline before following his partners inside. Paranoid, I thought. Or just smart.
Shivs watched them, but also watched me, as if waiting to see if I’d break or run or scream. But all I did was sip the bourbon and stare at the blood drying on my floor.
“You should get cleaned up,” he said. “No need to watch the gore.”
I almost laughed. “Compared to you?”
He shrugged. “Everybody’s got their thing.”
I glanced at the stairs, wondering if I could climb them without fainting. Shivs must’ve read my mind, because he offered his arm, bent and ready.
“Let’s go,” he said.
I took it.
Upstairs, the hallway was quiet, untouched by violence.
The rug was soft underfoot. I caught sight of myself in a mirror: hair wild, skin streaked with drying blood, dress in tatters.
I looked nothing like a CEO, or a princess, or a victim.
I looked like someone who’d been through hell and was planning to send a bill for damages.
In the bathroom, I closed the door and ran water until the sink threatened to overflow. I washed my face, hands, arms, scrubbing until the skin stung. I brushed my teeth three times. I spat out pink foam, watched it swirl down the drain, and felt a sharp, bitter satisfaction.
When I went back out, Shivs was waiting in the hallway, dressed in one of my father’s old robes. The garment was too small for him, comical, but he wore it without irony.
“Better?” he asked.
“Not even close,” I said. “But I’ll live.”
“Good,” he said. “You’re tougher than you look.”
We went back downstairs together, past the broken bodies and the chaos. The cleanup crew worked fast—lime on the floors, plastic sheeting, and bleach that burned my nose. One of the bikers, the younger one, paused to nod at me. Respect, or deference, or maybe just relief.
“Almost done here,” one of the men said. “Sorry, name’s Dementor. Up from Atlanta to teach these assholes how to clean up after themselves.” He smiled and winked at Shivs.
“Canon,” one of the other men said. “I’m babysitting this big asshole.” He nodded at Dementor.
I sat on the bottom step, glass in hand, watching the new order assert itself. The house would never be clean, not really, but that didn’t matter anymore. I’d crossed some line, and there was no going back.
Shivs came and stood next to me. I could feel the heat of him, the restlessness, the animal coiled under the skin. He didn’t speak for a long time.
Finally, he said, “They’ll try again. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not for a year. But they’ll come.”
I sipped the bourbon, letting the fire settle in my gut. “Let them,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”