Chapter 11
· King Soren ·
The next day
I’m standing beside Damian, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface.
The council’s summons felt urgent as Maverick called us to the beaches by the docks, and now I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong.
Pulling up in the parking lot, the entire street is lined with onlookers.
Police are everywhere trying to get rid of people when I realize it’s not just supernatural officials but human officials.
“What the heck is going on?” Damian murmurs as we climb out of the car. The two of us approach the beach, where officials are gathered near the water’s edge. The salty air fills my lungs, but it does nothing to quell the unease creeping into my chest.
“There’s been a shipping container that washed ashore,” the council member explains, his face pale. “We need you to take a look.”
I glance at Damian confused, wondering why we would be called to check out a container.
“Washed up last night?” Damian asks, trying to gauge what is going on.
“Yeah, after a storm hit. Some humans broke into it,” Maverick tells me, coming over to us.
“I don’t understand,” I admit. What’s all this fuss over a shipping container?
Maverick waves for us to follow, and we step under the police tape that is held with flag poles.
I follow him and Damian down the sandy path, the crashing waves grow louder as we approach the container, and I can hear the murmurs and gasps from the people gathered around.
The sound of feet shuffling through the sand and the occasional splash of water.
Upon reaching the scene, a sense of dread clutches my heart as my gaze is met with a sight more terrifying than I could have anticipated.
The large metal container is partially submerged, water lapping around its rusted edges.
There’s a crowd of people standing back, whispering among themselves, and tension is thick in the air.
“What’s going on?” I demand, striding toward the head council member, Clyde.
Maverick follows me, trying to detour me.
“My King, I suggest you don’t…” but his words come too late as my shoes are washed with the small waves, and I step over next to Clyde, who’s looking through the open doors on the container.
A coroner and the coast guard stand nearby, and I can see outlines of bodies under tarps—my breath lodges in my throat at the sight.
“What’s inside?” Damian asks, and I try to tell him not to look, knowing what I have seen can’t be unseen.
“Bodies,” the council member says, and my stomach churns. “We’ve confirmed multiple fatalities.”
I exchange a glance with Damian, whose expression mirrors my horror. “How many?” I press, the gravity of the situation settling heavily over us.
“We’ve pulled out at least a dozen. We’ve yet to get a full count,” Clyde replies, his gaze shifting to the coast guard standing next to the coroner. The tarps flutter in the sea breeze, offering glimpses of the shapes underneath. I force myself to swallow, bracing for what comes next.
As people begin the grim task of extracting the bodies, an overpowering stench fills the air—the nauseating scent of decay.
“What the hell happened here?” I mutter.
Damian’s brow furrows as he scans the scene. “Do we know where the container came from?”
I look at Clyde, who stares, eyes wide, but Maverick is the one who answers. “All we know is… they’re all women and children, all feeders. The container has no defining marks.” I whip my head in his direction.
“Feeders?” The word slips out of my mouth, laced with a potent cocktail of horror and disbelief.
The grim reality of our call materializes, taking form in the gruesome scene before us.
Either humans have descended into this monstrous trade of trafficking their own kind to satiate vampires, or even more horrifying, our own kin are involved in this gruesome commerce.
Maverick affirms my worst suspicions with a slow, grave nod.
His eyes portray a mirror image of my shock as the first of many children are extracted from the depths of the container.
We stand a respectful distance away, allowing the grim task to proceed without interference.
Only when the horrific scene reaches its conclusion do we dare to encroach upon the space once filled with innocent lives.
Stepping into the claustrophobic confines of the container is an assault on my senses. The air is heavy with a stench that threatens to turn my stomach, bodily waste that pervades every inch of this makeshift prison. Blood smears the walls.
The farther I step in, it is no less horrifying; countless women and children were crammed into this dark and dank space like sardines packed tightly in their tin can coffin, their personal hell in the form of a shipping container.
My gaze traces a crimson trail smeared across the floor where bodies were mashed together and collided. My eyes are drawn upward to the walls, where deep gouges mar the cold metal surface. A chilling show of their futile struggle to escape.
“They were alive,” Damian’s voice breaks through my thoughts, his tone barely above a whisper, heavy with sorrow. “They tried to get out,” he adds, his words punctuated by Maverick’s heavy footsteps as he steps into the container behind us.
The tragic scene before us is suffocating. The knowledge that these women and children were alive, their cries for help falling on deaf ears, is a burden that crushes me deeply.
Maverick’s deep voice echoes in the container as he confirms what I already feared. “Yes, they managed to open one door. Some bodies washed up, the rest were trapped. The pressure would have held the doors closed. Had the storm not been so brutal, we may not have found them.”
I struggle to keep my composure as I step back out and glance around at the lifeless bodies surrounding me. Most of them are human, but seven she-wolves are among them. My heart aches for these innocent victims, robbed of their lives in such a cruel manner.
My gaze falls upon a little girl, the tarp having lifted from the wind; she’s no more than six years old, lying still on the ground.
Her small hand grips tightly onto a ragged teddy bear, a final attempt to find comfort in such terror.
My heart breaks for her and all the other children who suffered in this nightmare.
“Who could do something like this?” I ask aloud, my voice thick with emotion.
Maverick’s jaw clenches with anger as he stares around at the carnage. “I don’t know,” he replies through gritted teeth. “But we need to find out.”
Is this some sort of twisted trafficking operation? Are vampires behind it, or is our own kind involved? And why do they need both humans and werewolves?
Damian speaks up, his voice filled with grief. “The council will have trouble explaining this.”
I nod before turning toward the sound of someone approaching. Rhett is striding toward us, a look of disdain on his face. Clyde steps forward. “I called you, Rhett. We need your input on this.”
Rhett looks at the container, covering his nose against the stench. “Not one of mine,” he snaps. “I’m not into shipping illegal cargo. You’re looking at the wrong Alpha.” His dismissive tone sends a wave of anger through me.
Then, out of nowhere, Bianca wanders over. The moment she sees the scene before her, she pales and immediately turns to vomit at the sight. I feel a mixture of disgust and frustration.
“Great, God knows where it washed up,” Damian murmurs, and Bianca straightens, her face ashen.
“Didn’t Jefferson lose a few containers a few weeks back?” she suggests, glancing nervously at the container.
We all turn to look at her in surprise.
Clyde steps forward, his brow furrowing in thought. “Jefferson?”
“Yeah, he was angry because he lost four containers of one shipment,” Bianca confirms, her voice shaky.
I glance at Clyde, who nods slowly, the realization dawning on all of us. “I will head out and look into it,” he says, his tone serious.
“I’ll go with you,” Rhett offers, his expression shifting to one of determination. “I can help you look at shipment logs.”
Maverick interjects, “Maybe we should leave it to the authorities to handle.”
“We are the authorities,” Clyde snaps back, his voice firm. “If Jefferson is behind this, it’s up to us to deal with him.”
With tensions rising, this situation is spiraling out of control. We stand in the shadow of something far more sinister than just a washed-up container. I can feel it in my bones.