Chapter 29 Rhys
RHYS
The Bellweather mansion squatted in downtown Dallas like a guilty secret wrapped in architectural arrogance.
Between the drive to Seattle and the four-hour flight, we arrived just in time for the seventy-two-hour deadline.
The Southern Council always met at the Bellweather mansion, but I’d never been the one to attend.
It had always been Logan. From the street, humans saw nothing but an empty lot, probably assuming it was designated for some future strip mall or overpriced condos.
But step through the glamour barrier, and you were suddenly face-to-face with an antebellum monument that made you wonder if someone had pickled the entire Confederacy.
The Southern Council sure enjoyed their pomp and circumstance. The Bellweather mansion ticked every box.
White columns stretched three stories high, supporting balconies that dripped with wrought-iron swirls detailed enough to make a wedding cake weep with envy.
Spanish moss hung from ancient oaks that had no business thriving in the urban concrete, and the circular drive was paved with stones that predated Texas statehood.
“Subtle,” I muttered, climbing the marble steps beside Sable. “Nothing says ‘secret supernatural government’ like cosplaying Gone with the Wind in the middle of a major metropolitan area.”
The massive front doors, carved with magically moving constellations representing shifter politics, swung open before we could knock. An orc in formal evening wear with a giant staff greeted us with a practiced smile as two others stood like statues behind him.
“Welcome to the Southern Council,” he said, gesturing for us to move into a foyer that belonged in a museum. His tusked smile was polite but perfunctory as he looked us over. “And you represent which pack?”
“Orion,” Logan replied simply.
The orc froze mid-gesture. His greenish skin went the color of old parchment, and his ceremonial staff trembled in his grip.
“Orion?” The word came out like he was choking on it. “The Orion pack?”
Two other orcs flanking the entrance—guards who were trying very hard to look ornamental—suddenly weren’t trying anymore.
One dropped his hand to what was definitely a weapon concealed under his formal robes.
The other started backing toward an alcove where I guessed there were emergency communication devices.
“The treaties…” the orc who’d greeted us stammered, sweat beading on his broad forehead. “The accords signed after the Boundary Wars specifically stated that Orion would not… that your pack was excluded from Southern Council participation indefinitely.”
Ah. Guess that’s why they’re not rolling out the red carpet. We weren’t just unexpected guests—we were treaty violators showing up to the supernatural equivalent of the UN General Assembly.
Except we’d never signed such a treaty.
“Times change,” Logan said. A diplomatic non-answer.
The guard who’d been edging toward the alcove spoke in rapid, guttural orcish—all harsh consonants. From the look on his face, he was reporting our arrival to someone who definitely needed to know about it immediately.
“This is…” The orc who’d greeted us struggled for words, his formal composure cracking. “The Southern Council’s leadership will need to convene a special session.”
“Looking forward to it,” I said, which made all three orcs look at me like I’d just announced my intention to juggle live grenades. “Should be a fun conversation. Tell them Alpha Logan and Beta Rhys Orion have arrived and we have a lot to say.”
The orc’s laugh was the kind of strangled sound you make when someone tells you the world is falling apart but you’re supposed to keep smiling for the cameras.
“Indeed,” he managed. “Your arrival will certainly be the topic of much discussion.”
Translation: we were walking into the supernatural equivalent of a diplomatic incident, and everyone was trying very hard not to panic about it.
He rolled his shoulders back, putting on a mock calm. “The underground chambers have been prepared for a—ahem—cocktail party ahead of the evening sessions. If you’ll follow me…”
A cocktail party. Nothing like a mixer with supes who wished we weren’t here and who’d had no anticipation of our arrival.
I’d never been to any of these events, but I imagined stuffy owl shifters waxing poetic for deer shifters while slow jazz played in the background.
And then a whole lot of silence as they took in our arrival.
The orc led us through the foyer and rooms that screamed old money and older power—libraries with leather-bound books containing more supernatural history than most packs remembered, sitting rooms furnished with antiques that had witnessed centuries of shifter politics, dining halls long enough to host a small army.
We reached an elevator.
“The real work happens below,” our guide explained as we descended. “You can imagine that many of our delegates prefer the controlled environment.”
“You speak as if I haven’t been here before.” Logan let out a growl to show his displeasure.
A smile curved on the orc’s lips. “It’s been a long time since Orion had a true place at the table.”
The elevator doors opened onto a different world entirely.
Curved corridors stretched in multiple directions, lit by what looked like perpetual moonlight that didn’t cast shadows.
The air hummed with a supernatural climate control that kept everything at the perfect temperature for every creature, whether hot or cold.
The perks of having a few witches at their disposal.
The Southern Council was well-known for their unlikely partnerships with natural enemies to shifters.
“It’s just like I remember it,” Sable said quietly.
A shiver went down my spine. “I’m getting serious ‘evil villain lair’ vibes from the aesthetic choices.”
We passed meeting chambers labeled with constellation names—Andromeda, Tucana, Cassiopeia—each Southern shifter pack having its own dedicated space in the Council headquarters.
Our guide paused at an intersection marked with symbols I didn’t recognize. “The main assembly hall is through here. Sessions begin at midnight, naturally. There are refreshment stations throughout the complex that are specialized for various dietary requirements.”
I bet it was. Nothing said inclusive supernatural government like a buffet that catered to everything from blood-drinkers to raw meat enthusiasts.
“I’ll take you to the grand ballroom, where the cocktail party is already underway. After that, the Council will move to the initial decision-making process for determining the agenda of the session.”
“One question,” I said as we approached massive double doors carved with what looked like the entire night sky. “How does this decision-making process work? Do we vote? Draw straws? Rock, paper, scissors?”
His chuckle was low. “You’ll see, Beta Rhys. Here in the south we have our own ways of reaching consensus.”
The massive doors swung open to reveal what should have been a dignified assembly hall. Instead, we walked into something that made a Roman orgy look like a Sunday social.
“Here you go,” the orc sneered. “Please make yourselves at home.” And he left, closing the door behind him.
If you looked past the scenes of debauchery happening on chairs, tables, and across the floor, the ballroom was impressive with its Romanesque columns and candelabras that burned perpetually from both ends.
Whatever dignity the architecture might have possessed was thoroughly undermined by what was happening in the shadows between the marble columns.
Delegates who should have been discussing territorial disputes were doing all sorts of deeds.
To our left was a leopard shifter riding a guy’s dick with undue enthusiasm. In front of us were scenes of shifters in varying stages of undress, a couple threesomes, and several groups in a pile, drunk and carefree as cocks moved from mouth to mouth.
“Well,” I said, steering Sable toward the least compromised section of seating, “I see the Southern Council has really elevated the standards of supernatural diplomacy since our last invitation.”
Sable’s jaw was tight enough to crack her teeth. “This is supposed to be a governing body?”
I caught sight of a group of what looked like cat shifters engaged in activities that definitely weren’t in any parliamentary procedure manual I’d ever read.
“What the hell?” Logan’s voice carried enough alpha authority to stop conversations across the room.
Logan’s disgust radiated off him and made nearby delegates pause their “negotiations” to look up nervously. An alpha wolf in full moral outrage was apparently sobering even to beings who’d clearly abandoned most concepts of propriety.
“No wonder supernatural politics are such a mess,” I added, noting how several supposedly serious territorial negotiations seemed to be happening between participants who were barely clothed.
“Hard to take treaty discussions seriously when half the delegates are treating it like a swingers convention.”
Whatever the Southern Council had once been, it had clearly devolved into something that prioritized indulgence over actual governance.
To the right, one of the hired help in half-uniform was topless, rubbing her breasts in a bear shifter’s face while he lazily sat in an armchair and rubbed her ass.
His frustration got the better of him, and he ripped her pants off her.
That just made her squeal with delight, and he pressed two fingers inside her.
He sucked her nipple, loud enough to turn heads, and she giggled, climbing on top of him.
He had to be at least twice her size, but she was flexible.
The bear shifter pulled his fingers out of her and adjusted her body over him, slamming her down onto his cock again and again until he roared.
He caught sight of us.