Chapter 15 Ash and Whiskey #2
I settled into the worn leather chair across from his desk, the same chair I'd occupied for countless conversations about responsibility and legacy and the particular burdens that came with Callahan blood. But this felt different. Heavier.
Dad turned away from the window, and I saw something in his expression that I'd never seen before. Not fear, exactly, but the kind of deep concern that came from facing threats too large to handle through normal channels.
“The Council called an emergency session,” he said, settling behind his desk like he was preparing for a siege. “Reports have been coming in from across the continent. Dead wolves. Dozens of them, scattered from Alaska to Mexico.”
The words hit me like cold water, reframing the morning's tension into something much more serious. “Rogues?”
“That's what we thought initially. Territorial disputes, challenges gone wrong, the usual violence that comes when packs test boundaries.” Dad's jaw tightened. “But the pattern doesn't fit. These aren't challenge kills or territorial executions. These are something else entirely.”
He pulled a manila folder from his desk drawer, spreading photographs across the wooden surface like tarot cards predicting disaster. Black and white images that showed what remained of wolves who'd died badly, torn apart by something that understood anatomy well enough to maximize suffering.
I forced myself to look, to catalog the evidence that would help me understand whatever threat was moving through our world like a plague. The kills were methodical, precise, designed to send a message rather than simply eliminate opposition.
“How many?” I asked, voice steadier than I felt.
“Forty-three confirmed, with more reports coming in daily.” Dad's finger traced patterns on the map he'd spread beside the photographs, marking locations with the clinical attention of someone planning a military campaign.
“From seven different territories, no apparent connection between the victims beyond species and the method of death.”
The scope of it was staggering. In my lifetime, pack conflicts had been localized affairs, disputes between neighboring territories that rarely extended beyond a few casualties and carefully negotiated treaties.
This was something entirely different, coordinated and widespread enough to threaten the stability that had kept our world hidden from human awareness.
“Do we know who's responsible?”
Dad was quiet for a long moment, studying the photographs with the attention of someone trying to read meaning in patterns that defied logical explanation.
“No clear perpetrator,” he said finally. “But the kills show knowledge of pack structure, understanding of how to eliminate leadership and destabilize communities. Whoever's doing this has studied us, learned our weaknesses, planned these attacks with surgical precision.”
This wasn't random violence or territorial expansion. This was systematic elimination, conducted by someone with enough knowledge and resources to wage war against supernatural communities across an entire continent.
“The Council thinks it's connected to the old bloodlines,” Dad continued. “Families that were driven out during the territorial consolidations, magic practitioners who've been nursing grudges for generations. Names that haven't been spoken in pack meetings for decades.”
“What does this mean for us?” I asked, though I was already beginning to understand the weight of what Dad was telling me.
Dad leaned back in his chair, expression grave. “It means every pack in North America is looking to us for leadership, guidance, protection.”
The reminder of our position in the supernatural hierarchy hit me then.
Our pack wasn't just another territorial group managing local disputes.
Dad served as Head Alpha for the entire continent, the final authority in matters that affected every werewolf community from the Arctic Circle to the Rio Grande.
Which meant that when threats emerged that could destabilize the entire system, the responsibility for response fell to us. To him. And someday, to me.
“Forty-seven packs across twelve territories,” Dad said, reading my thoughts with the accuracy that came from sharing blood and bonds and the particular burdens of leadership. “Nearly three thousand wolves, all looking to the Callahan pack for answers we don't have yet.”
The numbers were staggering, the scope of responsibility almost incomprehensible. I'd grown up knowing that our pack carried weight beyond our small-town boundaries, but the abstract knowledge of authority was different from facing the practical reality of what that meant.
“You're telling me this because it's my inheritance,” I said, understanding finally settling into place. “Because someday I'll be the one making these decisions.”
“I'm telling you this because someday might be sooner than we'd planned.” Dad's voice carried the weight of fears he'd been carrying alone, probably for longer than I'd realized.
“The attacks are escalating, becoming bolder.
Whoever's behind this isn't content to pick off isolated targets anymore.
They're moving toward something bigger, more devastating.”
The thought of Dad facing threats that could end his leadership, that could force early transition of authority to someone who'd never wanted the burden in the first place, made my chest tight with panic I couldn't afford to show.
“What do you need from me?”
“I need you to start thinking like an Alpha instead of a pack member,” he said.
“The pack needs to be ready. Not just our immediate family, but every wolf who looks to us for protection. That means training, preparation, coordination with allied packs across the continent. It means being willing to make choices that will keep our people alive even when those choices cost us everything else we value.”
“How long do we have?”
“Unknown. Could be months, could be weeks. The pattern's accelerating, but we don't know what the endgame looks like.” Dad gathered the photographs, sliding them back into the folder. “What I do know is that when it comes, we need to be ready. All of us.”
“I'll start working with the pack,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Training schedules, coordination drills, whatever preparation you think we need.”
“Good.” Dad stood, moving back to the window that overlooked the mill floor where pack members continued their work.
“But Evan, remember this—leadership isn't about being the strongest or the most ruthless.
It's about being willing to carry burdens that would break other people, about making decisions that serve the greater good even when they destroy you personally.”
“The pack comes first,” I said, reciting the lesson that had been drilled into me since childhood. “Always.”
“Always,” Dad agreed. “Even when it costs you everything else you want.”
I stood to leave, pausing at the door with my hand on the knob. “Dad? Do you think we'll be ready? When whatever's coming finally arrives?”
Dad was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the afternoon light that slanted through the mill's high windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like spirits in the golden air.
“I think we'll do what Callahans have always done,” he said finally. “We'll stand our ground, protect our people, and find a way to survive what tries to break us. Even if it breaks us in the process.”
The afternoon passed quickly after that, the familiar rhythm of loading and organizing and checking orders providing welcome distraction from uncomfortable truths about inheritance and responsibility.
By closing time, we'd completed both deliveries and made significant progress on tomorrow's orders, but the work felt different now, weighted with knowledge of threats that could end everything we'd built.
I should have gone home. Should have collapsed into bed and tried to get enough sleep to face tomorrow's list of responsibilities with something resembling competence.
Should have done the expected thing, the responsible thing, the thing that fit the carefully constructed image of Evan Callahan, future pillar of the community.
Instead, I climbed into my truck and drove toward the outskirts of town where Gideon kept his workshop.
The truck rattled and wheezed like it was held together by hope and automotive prayer, which wasn't far from the truth. But it ran, and it got me where I needed to go, and it didn't care if I was living up to anyone's expectations as long as I kept feeding it gas and fixing the parts that broke.
Simple. Honest. A relationship I understood.
Gideon's place sat at the end of a gravel road that wound through second-growth pine, isolated enough that neighbors weren't a concern and close enough to town that he could still pretend to be part of the community when it suited him.
The workshop squatted beside a small house that looked like it had been built by someone who valued function over form, all clean lines and practical windows that let in maximum light for working.
Light spilled from the open bay doors, and I could hear voices mixed with the metallic percussion of someone working late.
Not just one person—multiple voices, laughter, the sound of beer bottles clinking together.
I parked beside Cal's beat-up Chevy and Mason's pristine Ford, understanding immediately what I'd walked into.
“Thought you might show up tonight,” Gideon called out without looking up from the transmission he was rebuilding. “Town council run long?”
The scene inside the workshop was exactly what I'd needed without realizing it.
Cal sat perched on a workbench, beer in one hand and a wrench in the other, regaling Mason with what sounded like another one of his legendary near-death experiences.
Mason leaned against a tool cabinet, shaking his head with the long-suffering expression of someone who'd heard this story before but didn't mind hearing it again.
“Three hours of listening to grown men argue about fence height regulations,” I said, accepting the beer Cal tossed my way. “I'm starting to think democracy is overrated.”
“Democracy's got nothing to do with it,” Gideon said, setting down his tools and turning to give the group his full attention. “What you've got is a room full of people who've forgotten that sometimes problems need fixing instead of discussing to death.”
“Like that time Cal tried to fix the community center's furnace,” Mason added dryly, taking a sip of his beer. “Remember how that discussion went?”
Cal straightened up indignantly. “Hey now, that furnace was a deathtrap. I was performing a public service.”
“You flooded the basement,” I pointed out, settling onto my usual stool.
“Minor water damage in service of preventing a gas explosion,” Cal corrected. “I call that a win.”
“The fire department called it a disaster,” Mason said.
“The fire department has no vision,” Cal declared. “No appreciation for creative problem-solving.”
Gideon snorted, reaching for the bottle of whiskey that lived on his workbench for nights when beer wasn't strong enough. “Creative problem-solving. Is that what we're calling it now?”
The easy banter washed over me like a balm, settling some restless part of my chest that had been wound tight since the town council meeting. This was what I'd been missing without realizing it—belonging that didn't come with expectations, acceptance that didn't require performance.
My wolf paced restlessly beneath my ribs, agitated in ways I couldn't explain to people who thought the biggest predators in Hollow Pines were the occasional black bears that wandered through garbage cans.
The animal part of me had been on edge for days, ever since catching Nate's scent again, like some fundamental part of my biology had been waiting for him to come home.
“Speaking of creative problem-solving,” Mason said, studying me with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing, “you look like someone who's got a problem that needs solving.”
“Or discussing to death,” Cal added cheerfully. “We're good at both.”
I took a long pull of beer, buying time while I figured out how much I was willing to admit. These men had become something like family over the months we'd worked together, but family could be complicated when you had secrets you couldn't share.
“It's nothing major,” I said finally. “Just trying to figure out how to balance what people expect from me with what I actually want.”
“Ah,” Gideon said, pouring amber liquid into clean glasses and sliding them across the bench. “The eternal struggle of anyone born with a famous last name.”
Cal accepted his whiskey with a grateful nod. “You know what your problem is, junior? You think too much. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.”
“Cal's gut once told him to eat gas station sushi,” Mason pointed out. “Maybe not the most reliable advisor.”
“That was one time, and I maintain that sushi was fresher than it had any right to be,” Cal protested. “Besides, we're talking about life decisions here, not food choices.”
“Life decisions require more thought than food choices,” Mason said. “Not less.”
“Do they though?” Cal leaned forward, warming to his theme. “I mean, think about it. When you're really hungry, you don't stand in front of the refrigerator analyzing every option. You grab what looks good and go with it.”
“That approach is how you ended up married to your ex-wife,” Gideon observed.
“Exactly my point,” Cal said, then paused. “Wait, no. That's the opposite of my point.”
I found myself laughing despite the knot in my chest, watching these three men who'd somehow become the most important constants in my life.
They didn't know about pack bonds or supernatural politics or the weight of Alpha inheritance, but they understood work and loyalty and the particular way that belonging could heal wounds you didn't know you had.