Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The compound smelled like dark magic and violence, and Fallon was deeply, thoroughly done with all of it.
He stood in the yard of the farmhouse, surveying the chaos and wondering what the next step would be. How would they get everyone back? Some of the omegas and some Doyle alphas were too weak to fly, especially that far a distance.
Another day, another problem to solve. He’d been doing nothing else since he’d led twelve terrified omegas out of the Murphy clan and into the unknown.
That felt like a lifetime ago. In some ways, it was—the omega who’d trembled through his first night at the Hightower pack, who’d startled at loud noises and flinched at alpha voices, bore little resemblance to the man standing here now with blood crusted beneath his nose and magic still crackling at his fingertips.
That omega had been deadly afraid. This one was plain tired. There was a big difference.
Around him, the compound was being methodically dismantled as a functioning operation and converted into a crime scene.
Cladhaire and Baoth remained frozen in the basement corridor, twin monuments to the consequences of choosing power over honor.
Wolf alphas guarded the cluster of restrained Murphy dragons—minus Hubert, whose body had been dragged to a barn.
Fallon couldn’t muster even a little bit of sorrow over the man’s death and had zero regrets about killing him.
And in the outbuildings, the freed prisoners were being tended to—seventeen Doyle dragons, seven Murphy omegas, and poor little Tiernan, who hadn’t stopped shaking since they’d carried him out of his cell.
Malnourished, severely underweight, and carrying visible signs of abuse, Tiernan was in bad shape.
Fallon’s magic hummed beneath his skin, depleted but not empty.
The ward breach had cost him—channeling the entire clan’s power through Erwan’s White Dragon magic while simultaneously countering Colin’s dark spells had pushed him further than he’d ever gone before.
His nose had bled. His hands still tingled.
And then he’d had to dig even deeper when battling Hubert.
When he finally sat down, he’d crash hard.
But first, decisions needed to be made.
The leadership meeting convened in the compound’s main room—the same room where Fergal said Kerry had interrogated him, which Fallon found grimly satisfying.
The table that had been arranged for intimidation now served a different purpose, surrounded by people who’d earned their seats through honor rather than cruelty.
Gregor sat beside Fergal, their hands linked on the table in a display of connection that Fallon suspected was less deliberate than involuntary—the mate bond demanding physical contact that neither man seemed willing to deny.
Fergal looked exhausted but sharp. Gregor looked like hell—pale, drawn, the mate sickness still evident in the shadows under his eyes—but the tremor in his hands had stopped, and the rigid desperation that had characterized him since Fergal’s disappearance had been replaced by something steadier.
Erwan sat across from them, Lidon beside him in human form. The White Dragon and the True Alpha radiated a combined authority that made the air in the room feel denser, more significant. Blair was on speakerphone from Canada.
“We need to decide where to hold them,” Gregor said, cutting straight to the point.
“We have eleven prisoners requiring long-term secure detention until they can be brought before the Dragon Council—four Murphy alphas with significant magical abilities, three with combat training, plus Duncan and Donovan, and Cladhaire and Baoth with dark magic capabilities.”
Lidon said, “We can’t hold them on pack lands. The security risk is too high. I’ve spoken to Rhene, and he agrees.”
“The castle,” Erwan said. Every head turned to him. “The Doyle castle. It’s mine by right of the Council vote. It’s built as a fortress with a magical infrastructure that my father spent decades strengthening. And it’s close enough to the pack lands that guard rotations will be practical.”
Fergal leaned forward. “Under the Code, holding prisoners in a facility owned by the presiding clan leader pending a tribunal is explicitly authorized. Section Thirty-One, subsection D. As long as the conditions meet minimum standards of—”
“We’ll exceed minimum standards,” Erwan said firmly. “We’re not them.”
“Agreed.” Gregor pulled up a map on his phone, studying distances. “The castle is close enough for weekly guard rotations, far enough away that the prisoners’ presence won’t impact daily life in the pack.”
“Perfect.” Blair’s voice crackled through the speaker.
“Martin’s volunteering to be the on-site commander.
He knows the castle inside and out from his years as a guard there.
Once you’ve assessed the seventeen Doyle dragons and identified those whose loyalty is genuine, they can form the permanent garrison.
There’s a certain justice in having the people Cladhaire imprisoned be the ones guarding him. ”
Fallon caught Fergal’s smile at that.
“Rotating fighters from both packs can supplement the garrison,” Gregor said. “Blair, can you coordinate the schedule from Canada until the Fitzgerald situation is stable enough for you to return?”
“Already working on it,” Blair confirmed. “Ruben’s stepped up here. The compound is secure. I can have a rotation schedule for you by tomorrow.”
“Separation of prisoners is critical,” Erwan said. “Put the Murphys in the east wing, and Cladhaire and Baoth in the dungeons. No communication between groups. Different guard teams, different schedules, different meal times. I don’t want them coordinating stories before the tribunal.”
Fallon was already mentally listing the ward configurations they’d need—suppression wards for magical abilities, containment wards to prevent shifting, and monitoring wards to alert guards of any escape attempts.
Complex work, but well within his capabilities.
And he could ask Jermon and Erwan for help, since they knew the castle inside and out.
A year ago, he wouldn’t have believed he could do any of it.
Now it was simply the next task on the list.
“Transport,” Fergal said, shifting to logistics. “We need vehicles for the prisoners and separate transport for the freed dragons and omegas. We can’t put them in the same convoy.”
“I’ll send someone to the nearest town to rent a bunch of vans,” Isam offered, and the absolute mundanity of renting vehicles to transport imprisoned dragon criminals almost made Fallon laugh. Such strange lives they led.
“Two separate vans for the prisoners,” Gregor decided. “Heavy guard in each. Murphys in one, Cladhaire and Baoth in the other. Fallon and Jermon will need to place individual containment wards on every prisoner before we move them.”
Fallon nodded again. More work. Fine. He could sleep when it was done.
“Medical priorities,” Erwan said, his voice tightening. “Some of the freed Doyle dragons are in critical condition. Months of captivity with inadequate food and no medical care. And the Murphy omegas…” He trailed off.
He didn’t need to finish. Everyone in the room had seen the Murphy omegas, had looked into their hollow eyes and understood the scope of what had been done to them.
“Lucan has alerted everyone at the clinic, and they’re standing by,” Fallon said. “I texted Yitro an hour ago, and he’s coordinating meal preparation for the arrivals. Cabins are being prepared as well. Sivney is on it.”
“Tiernan is the most urgent case,” Erwan said. “He’s severely malnourished, dehydrated, and in acute psychological distress.”
“Can he be teleported?” Fergal asked.
Erwan hesitated. “It would be rough on his body, but the alternative of a long journey by car would be worse, I think.”
“Cedric,” Fergal said, and the omega appeared in the doorway as if he’d been waiting for his name. Which, knowing Cedric, he probably had.
“Can you manage one more teleportation?” Fergal asked. “One person, two hundred miles?”
Cedric was pale, with dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, his body carrying the visible toll of what he’d accomplished. But his voice was steady. “For a child? Yes. I can manage.”
“Are you sure?” Fallon asked because someone had to. “You’ve already pushed beyond—”
“I’m sure.” Cedric’s jaw set with a determination that Fallon recognized from himself—the quiet, unbreakable resolve of a person who had survived horrors and emerged not broken but refined. “Get me to the boy.”
Sonya, an elderly Doyle omega, was keeping Tiernan company. The boy was sitting on the floor of one of the outbuildings with his knees drawn to his chest, a blanket wrapped around him. His sandy hair was matted, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, ancient in a face too young to hold them.
Fallon crouched in front of him. “Tiernan.”
Tiernan looked up with wary assessment, but stayed silent.
“Do you remember me? I’m Fallon. I babysat you before you were sent to the O’Connors.”
Recognition brought the tiniest of sparks to Tiernan’s eyes. “You were always so sweet to me.”
“Thank you. I tried.”
“Do you know where my brother is?”
“Yes. Simon is very eager to see you. He’s with the Hightower pack, and he has been worried sick about you. We’re going to take you to him right now.”
Tiernan lunged forward and grabbed Fallon’s arm with fingers that were painfully thin and surprisingly strong, clinging like a drowning person to a rope. “Take me to him. Please. Please take me to my brother.”
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Fallon looked at Cedric, who came closer and knelt beside them. “This is Cedric. He’s going to teleport you to the pack. It’ll feel strange—disorienting, maybe a little nauseating—but it’s fast. You’ll be with Simon in minutes.”
“Teleportation?” The boy’s eyes went wide with fear.