Chapter 63
I ARRIVE AT THE CONFERENCE Hall a few minutes later than everyone. I'm not reprimanded for my tardiness since I dropped Jace off at his house and stayed a few minutes to talk. We kept it short and sweet, said our goodbyes, and he slipped out of the car with a kiss.
I left after watching him properly close the front door. His parents were both home, and one house down, across the street, a police cruiser sat within view of the front windows of the Conners'.
Most of the seats around the large conference table are taken, every member of the four prominent families occupying a space in the hall, including Laken, now that everyone in Marcana knows his mate is the future alpha.
The only person missing is Nathaniel Hayes who is only six years old.
It will be many years before he sits at this table like his older brother – who looks like he's about to fall out of his chair.
I slide into the empty chair between Commander Rick and my best friend, nudging Carter with my elbow, mentally noting the hall's gloomy ambience, the rigid postures of my superiors and the worry that's seemed to scar itself deep on Dad's face.
"Maybe next time, take it easy. Yeah?" I whisper in a taunt that only Carter hears. He groans and flips me a finger, reaching for a bottle of water. He downs half of it, no doubt still woozy and dehydrated after mixing Goddess knows how much wolfsbane with hard liquor.
While he gathers himself, Beta Chad starts the meeting. Alpha's earlier mass text gave no information about the meeting's nature but if the pack's beta – or Dad – is the one leading conversation, then it's a Council matter.
And it's top priority if the families of the four highest ranks are called forward rather than a request for a representative for each rank.
The projector screen is turned on, and HDMI cables connect the projector monitor to the open laptop in front of Beta Chad. The projector screen mirrors back a sunny desert screensaver.
Across the conference table, I'm distracted by Dad's disquieting demeanor. He's unusually still, unusually quiet. He listens along, gaze blanked out at a random spot on the table.
I have been so preoccupied that I'm suddenly struck by how different my father appears.
There are more grays in his hair. He hasn't shaved in maybe three or four days. There are bags under his eyes, discoloring the skin to a darkish shade, and his eyes are red from lack of sleep. He looks somehow smaller too, as if he hasn't been eating.
Am I the one causing this? Tuesday morning when Beta Chad dropped me back at the Conners', he mentioned that Dad's taken notice of my sorry state despite efforts to conceal it. Did I unknowingly expose my father to higher stress levels by neglecting myself?
It feels as though I'm letting everyone around me down.
Jace and his family are no longer as safe as they were before I swept into their lives, unknowingly bringing forth an element of malicious danger.
And my father looks like he's one strong wind away from breaking to pieces.
He catches me watching and I tilt my head; a silent question asking if he's okay. He smiles behind his fist, but it's the same kind that doesn't reach his eyes.
It's a tired one.
A troubled smile.
My stomach drops and churns. The hair on my arms raise with goosebumps; my head whips up toward Beta Chad who just delivered news that seems to shake the chair I'm on. It feels like the floor will give way.
"What did you just say?" I query, unable to believe my ears. No, I must have heard wrong.
There's no way.
Beta Chad pauses and repeats his earlier statement. As he does, my gaze travels back to my father who sits ramrod stiff in his chair, a pallor to his complexion that wasn't there a moment ago.
"Kevin Sommers was pronounced dead three hours ago."
My jaw moves. My mouth opens. Dread pools in my stomach, my heart kicking up speed. The information settles like poison on my tongue.
"How? Where?"
"Approximately six miles east of his last known location. The same day the request for his witness protection order was sent in, it was approved," Beta Chad informs, the picture of perfect calm while ground shakes beneath me and unwanted images pop into my head.
Bloody images.
Mutilated bodies.
Dead eyes.
A mop of blood-matted blonde hair.
There's a sound. A piercing scream I'm too familiar with, ringing in the recesses of my head.
"We relocated him to a hideout in Murdoc Province and assigned three officers to his detail. This morning, we received a report that Sommers went missing and were unable to locate him until around midday. We swept the area – the hideout and continued east.
We found him and two of the officers six miles away. The officers bore wounds indicating merciful, quick deaths."
"And Sommers?" I manage, barely recognizing my own voice through its whispered rasp.
Beta Chad taps a few keys on the laptop. "Brace yourselves," he warns. The gallery app pops up on the screen and loads.
Sharp gasps ring out from the women among us because the image revealed is something out of a horror slasher film.
The woods in midday scorching sun, partially blocked out by overhead canopy.
A glimpse of yellow crime scene tape in the background of the photo cordoning the area.
Numbered yellow cards scattered across the ground.
Three bodies at unnatural angles among leaves, twigs, and dirt. Dark red liquid pooling around them.
The image flickers and changes to another as Beta Chad flips through each.
The officers were dealt with quickly – knife slits to the throat. Deep enough that there was no suffocation or prolonged passing.
No pain. Just here one moment, dead the next.
But the most horrific one of the set is the photo of Kevin Sommers – or rather, what is left of him.
"Goddess, what the fuck?" comes Commander Rick's disturbed exclamation from beside me.
We're confronted by an image of Kevin Sommers' mutilated corpse. His legs were broken, bent at odd, unnatural angles, the tibia of his left leg sticking out of his ripped pants. His head has been decapitated, a clean swipe of a blade, positioned not where it should be but on the side of his torso.
Carved into his torso are the words:
Each stroke of lettering is neatly carved into the flesh, post-mortem, with no excessive damage to the skin around the wounds, no excess blood loss.
It was carved by an expert hand wielding a knife.
They send a cold chill racing down my spine.
Goosebumps return and I rub at my forearms to chase them away.
It does little to subside the fear the message – bold and clear – strikes me with.
But the words – their meaning – aren't what disturbs me most.
It's the decapitated tongue that takes the place of where an 'I' should be in the word 'FIND'.
This death is on me.
I did this.
I'm not broken up that a trespassing rogue is now dead, but Kevin Sommers didn't deserve to be tortured, and his corpse used to deliver a message from a depraved Were.
"There's more," Beta Chad informs. My gaze snaps to him as he turns his attention back to the laptop.
He has to be joking. What more could have been done?
"Brace yourselves," he warns a second time.
"What you're about to see is a close-up of Sommers' decapitated tongue. His killer left us another message."
The image on the projector screen flickers.
A new one takes the place of the previous.
Indeed, a close-up of Sommers' tongue but of the underside of it and carved at half its length is an inverted hook – no, not a hook. A letter 'J' – one long stroke to start, and two shorter ones form the hooked bottom.
The silence that follows is heavy and pulsing. No one seems to be breathing. Several furtive glances find my father but if he notices it, he chooses to remain quiet.
Until he says, "I guess that confirms our theories." A pause. "Jessop's behind all of this. He's making his moves."
"And he's no longer hiding," Beta Chad piggybacks, tucking his hands into his pockets. His gaze tilts downward to the laptop screen, a smaller version of what the rest of us see. "He wants us to know it's him."
"Well, he certainly knows how to make an entrance," Alpha comments. He clears his throat and leans back into his chair. "We know he's the one who hired Weis and Briggs based on Weis' testimony –"
"And that Nadia trespassed with the intention to silence him," Commander Rick supplies as one by one, the heads list all the facts, building a case against Jessop Atkinson. "She's his most devout follower and hardly makes a move without him."
"Exactly," Beta Chad chimes in. "We expected this. We know what he's up to. Whichever direction he's going to attack from, we need to be prepared for a full-scale escalation. He's putting his people in place because yesterday, I spotted another one of his followers in town."
"Did they also have a brand mark?" I ask.
Beta Chad nods, a quiet sound of confirmation. He taps a few keys on the laptop and the image from before changes.
It's now a candid shot taken in public of a man wearing a black leather jacket. It's only a side profile and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. He has a head of white hair. But at a glance, he's a large man. Tall too, as he towers over the people around him by a full head.
Beta Chad clears his throat. "You can't see it because of the distance and angle. Also, because, it's been covered up with tattoos but there's a brand mark on his neck," he explains, pointing to a spot where the base of the neck meets the shoulder.
"The man in this photo is Gerard Kalligan. Boys," he says, then looks at Jessica squished between her brother and father, "Jessi, you don't know him. But it's important you understand what you're up against.
"If I made you a list of Jessop's followers who prove to be significant threats," he continues, pointing to the projector screen displaying Gerard Kalligan who looks close in age to the man he follows, "Gerard Kalligan would rank at number one. Above Nadia Brunell. He's not only loyal.