Calder
It was another beautiful fall day in Portland, Maine.
Thick gray clouds blocked the sun, the scent of fish was on the breeze, and the gulls screamed in the sky overhead.
I’d lived in Portland my entire life and I still couldn’t get used to how goddamn gloomy it was from October to May.
Then again, living on the outskirts of Portland meant me and my pack didn’t have far to go to find places to let the wolf out and run wild on the full moon.
Plus we could pretty much subsist on seafood and that was a blessing in its own right.
“Son of a bitch! Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!”
I let out a long sigh, glancing out over my desk into the car garage where the rest of my pack was working. “What’s wrong, Patrick?”
“This fuckin’ idiot put windshield wiper fluid in their goddamn oil well!”
Another sigh. That was going to be a mess. Especially considering they’d driven it to the garage with all that fluid circulating where it shouldn’t have been. “Which vehicle is it?” I called back. “The red SUV?”
“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Fuck man… this is gonna take all goddamn night.”
“Just do what you can. I’ll call the customer and let them know.”
As a young werewolf, I would’ve done anything to have a different life from my father.
But there I was, managing the same garage, running our small pack as their new Alpha.
He’d died a few years back thanks to a lifetime of eating far too much fast food and red meat.
Turned out werewolves were not immune to the standard American diet like they’d hoped.
But he died doing what he loved, eating deep fried steak and complaining.
Since then I’d been running both the pack and the garage.
As much as I wasn’t really looking forward to it, it was probably for the best. College hadn’t gone super well for me and working at a bar, despite the ease of picking up random women, wasn’t really my thing.
Working on cars though, tearing engines apart and fixing them, that was in my blood.
Too bad I never got to do any of that. I was stuck managing the place and dealing with shitty customers.
The phone on my desk rang as if on cue, the sound cutting through the cacophony of metal tools and Patrick's continued cursing. I reached for it, eyes still on the stack of invoices I'd been working through.
"Moonlight Motors, this is Calder speaking."
"Hello, I'm calling about my car? The blue Volvo?" The voice on the other end was deep, warm, and strangely melodic. Something about it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I knew that voice and he was a pain in the ass.
I shuffled through the paperwork until I found the right invoice. "Mr. Sullivan, right? Your brake pads were completely shot. We've got them replaced, but we found some issues with your transmission that you might want to address soon."
"Damn," he sighed. "Is it drivable?"
"For now, yeah. But I wouldn't put it off too long."
"Yeah, I’m sure it’s fine,” he replied. “I know you mechanics work. Something’s gotta be wrong or you don’t make money. I'll be there in twenty minutes to pick it up."
“That’s fine. You’ll need to sign a release form though, assuming responsibility if something happens.”
“Whatever.”
The line went dead with a clang. I hung up and went back to my paperwork, letting out a long sigh. If he wanted to drive a car that was on the edge of eating all the gears in his transmission, he could pay for it when it broke. I didn’t have time to care about it.
I shifted some paperwork and picked up the phone again, calling the owner of the red SUV. There was a good chance they were gonna be pissed too. They brought it in for a check up and now it needed at least a few hundred dollars in cleaning, repairs, and replacements. Cringing, I dialed the number.
Twenty minutes later I put the phone down, somehow exhausted from having to explain over and over again what had happened.
Of course the customer didn’t believe they’d made such a mistake.
They tried to blame it on us, then on a dealership, then on their neighbors.
But in the end there was only one choice.
Get it fixed, or get it towed. They chose to get it fixed. Thank the gods.
“Hey boss,” Trevor said, stepping up to my desk as he wiped his hands on a stained rag. “You want me to do the transmission on the Volvo?”
“No. Dumbass is gonna drive it until it dies. Just run it through the wash and bring it around. He’s on the way.”
“You got it.” He turned to head away, but stopped. “Oh, and there’s a guy waiting for you out back.”
I glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “A guy?”
“Yeah… not human. Didn’t smell like a werewolf either. Never seen him before. Figured it was Alpha stuff.”
I let out another long sigh, probably the fortieth one that day. “Alright,” I said, shaking my head. “You and Patrick be on guard though just in case things get weird. This is still our territory and I don’t want anyone coming up in here and causing trouble.”
“You got it, boss.”
I pushed back from my desk, stretching as I stood.
Being Alpha meant dealing with all kinds of unwelcome visitors—vampires wanting permission to feed in our territory, lone wolves looking to join a pack, or the occasional fae creature trying to negotiate some arcane deal.
Whoever this non-human visitor was, I wasn't in the mood for complications.
The back door led to a small fenced area where we kept the dumpsters and sometimes parked cars waiting on parts.
Standing there with his back to me was a slender man in a charcoal gray peacoat.
He had dark hair cut short on the sides but longer on top, and when he turned to face me, I was struck by eyes so dark they looked almost black.
"Alpha Calder Thorne?" he asked, his voice carrying a slight accent I couldn't place.
"That's me," I replied, crossing my arms. "And you are?"
"Elias Ageratum." He didn't offer his hand. Smart. Wolves don't appreciate strangers initiating contact. "I represent the Elder Council."
I snorted. "What the hell does the Elder Council want with us? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
A smile flickered across his face. "You are correct. The Elder Council has sent me as a sort of liaison to communicate with your pack.” He reached into his coat, pulling out a letter and offering it out to me. “This is their first official correspondence.”
I took the letter, but didn’t open it. “Anything else?” I asked rather gruffly.
“Not at this time,” he nodded. “However, the council will be awaiting a reply. So please be sure to call me when you’re ready to respond.”
“And how would I do that?”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” Elias grinned, pulling out a thin silver flip phone. “Text me. My number is on the back of the envelope.”
I flipped it over. Sure enough, there it was along with his name and his position with the council.
Above it was the seal of the Elder Council.
Even though it was just paper and ink, I could feel the slight tingle of magic running through it.
The magic made my nose crinkle, but I could tell somehow that it was meant for me, as if the sealing spell on the letter recognized me.
At least this Elias guy wasn’t fucking with me or trying to stir up trouble.
Still, being contacted by the Elder Council wasn’t really a good thing.
They had a tendency to always be the bearers of bad news.
Most wolves tried to avoid them completely.
“I should be on my way,” Elias said, bowing his head slightly. “But before I go, can you tell me where I can get a good lobster in this town? Preferably raw. I don’t get out this way much.”
Was this guy for real? “Uh… there’s a fish market down near the docks, maybe five miles east of here? They usually have a good selection.”
“Perfect,” he grinned, licking his lips. “They have such an exquisite crunch when they’re still wriggling.”
I couldn’t help but gag slightly as the man walked off.
His scent was unlike anything I’d ever smelled before.
It was a mixture of stone, mineral, and a hint of sulfur.
I could tell by looking at him that he wasn’t in his natural form, but the fact that he consumed meat raw gave me another clue.
He had to be a demon of some sort, that’s the only thing that made sense.
They weren’t common visitors by any means.
I watched Elias disappear around the corner, then looked down at the sealed letter in my hand. The Elder Council rarely reached out to small packs like ours, especially through demon messengers. Whatever this was about, it couldn't be good.
Back inside, Patrick and Trevor were waiting for me.
“Everything okay, boss?” Trevor asked, his hackles up despite his human form. “No issues?”
“Nah,” I huffed. “Just a demon messenger from the Elder Council.”
“The Elder Council?” Patrick asked, his eyes going wide. “What do they want? Something happen?”
I held up the letter. “I’m not sure. But the demon seemed to think we weren’t in trouble.”
The bell at the front door rang and I heard a familiar, annoying voice call out. “Hello? Anyone here? I need my car!”
It was Mr. Sullivan. “Let’s get things taken care of and we’ll worry about the letter later.” I turned back toward the front of the shop. “Coming!”
The day seemed to fly by in a whirlwind of customers and phone calls.
All the while the letter sat on my desk, unopened and taunting me.
I tried to focus on some clerical work when things calmed down, but the damn thing seemed to pulse with energy that kept drawing my attention.
Eventually I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
I tore it open, breaking the magical seal with a small snap of power that tickled my fingertips.
The letter looked like it had been produced on a typewriter, the blocky letters looking deeply old fashioned against the modern logo of the Elder Council and the light textured parchment.
Unfolding it completely, I began to read.