Tristan's Lyceum Wolves

Epilogue

As the private plane landed in New Orleans, Logan’s mind raced. It had been a long time since he’d been home, and he was looking forward to helping Marcel figure out who may have killed Paul. He glanced over to the women and children he’d rescued, who were huddled closely in their seats. He and Tristan had made the decision to relocate the remaining Wallace pack wolves to his old pack instead of keeping them in Philadelphia.

Three women and four children, all dirty and battered, were going to get a new lease on life. After talking with them, he gleaned they’d been kept down in Gerald’s makeshift prison for well over a year. Apparently, the former Wallace pack Alpha didn’t want to have to even see their faces, let alone hear from them. So he’d condemned them to living in the subterranean hell.

Logan was disgusted that anyone would treat another soul in such an inhumane manner. Sure, he’d grown up hearing the rumors of violence within the old packs, but never in all his years had he witnessed such a horrific sight. It was no wonder Kalli had been so afraid of wolves and created the CLI in order to remain hidden. As he reflected on the women’s fate, he reasoned that they too could begin new lives for themselves. But like Kalli, they’d probably be emotionally traumatized by the violence. Even with a new home and pack, life wouldn’t be easy for them, regardless of everyone’s good intentions.

Julie had accompanied him on his long flight. He observed how she’d taken the initiative and was helping them exit the jet. Goddess, he hoped a good dose of her healing would go a long way to help them assimilate. He waved over to Katrina, Tristan’s sister, who’d come to the airport to help. She was taking them to Marcel’s bayou compound. She gave him a sad smile and a nod as she helped the women and their pups get settled into a large limo that was waiting on the tarmac. While reluctant to let them go, he was assured they were in good hands. Waving goodbye, he entered into a separate limo that waited for his arrival.

Instead of going toward the country, Logan headed toward the city. Marcel was held up in his Garden District mansion, working on business, and Logan sought to debrief him as to what had occurred in South Carolina. Most importantly, he needed to make it clear that there was still someone out there, who he feared planned another attack on the wolves. Neither Jax Chandler, the Wallace pack nor any other packs had claimed responsibility for Paul’s death. And his visions told him there was more death to come….another dead wolf. So when Tristan suggested that he accompany the South Carolina wolves to their new Louisiana home, he eagerly agreed to go. He felt that if he could talk to Marcel in person, he could get a better handle on what was happening, clarify his dreams and help catch the killer.

Strip malls, churches and infamous above-ground cemeteries flashed by his line of vision on the short drive into the city. As they entered the Warehouse District, he was reminded of memories from long ago. During the late eighteen hundreds, Marcel, Tristan, Mira and he would take weekend trips to the French Quarter, attending masked Carnival balls, socializing into the wee hours of the morning. Then later, at the turn of the century, they’d witnessed the beginnings of Jazz played in the Storyville cabarets. And to this day, he never tired of walking the streets, appreciating the historic architecture. No matter how long he’d lived in Philadelphia, New Orleans was home.

As he reflected on happier times with Mira, the thought of her betrayal cut deep. When Tristan had sent her off to live with his eldest brother, Blake, in his Wyoming pack, he’d wholeheartedly agreed with the decision. Even though he loved her, he’d never be able to trust her again after she’d put the entire pack in danger. She was lucky Tristan hadn’t killed her. Perhaps in time, wounds would heal, he thought, but not anytime soon.

As he opened the car door, he took a deep breath, reminded of his intentions. Cicadas sung in the night as he drew in the warm southern air. He loved everything about New Orleans, from pralines to eating creole shrimp to sitting in his boat in the swamp, listening to music while watching the gators sun themselves. There wasn’t much he didn’t like about the Big Easy. He sighed, wishing this trip was for pleasure, but alas, it wasn’t.

The sound of a low growl emanating from the house first alerted him that something wasn’t right. He quickly ran up the steps and burst through the large front door. As he darted into a large moonlit parlor, he heard the sound of gunfire as Marcel fell to the floor. A burly, masked man dressed in black stuffed the gun into his pants and ran toward the back door.

“Go,” Marcel gurgled, holding the side of his neck as bright red blood spurted onto the cream-colored Italian marbled floor.

Logan fell to his knees and ripped off his shirt, holding it against the gaping wound. “You’ve gotta shift, Marcel,” he pleaded.

“Let me go. Don’t let him get away with this. Go get him,” Marcel ordered. A sobbing woman raced to his side, bringing a towel to help stop the bleeding.

“Call 911,” Logan yelled before sprinting after the man, determined to follow Marcel’s wishes. He pursued the attacker, wondering where Marcel’s beta was. Where was everyone? Who was the young woman? Unable to reason through what was happening, he focused on his task. Within seconds, Logan caught up with the perpetrator as he was trying to escape from the rear exit. Unsuccessfully but furiously, he yanked at the lock that prevented him from leaving. Logan scented that he was wolf and reached forward to subdue him.

“What the hell?” Logan yelled as the man spun around and punched him across the mouth. Logan staggered, but managed to wrestle him to the ground, grabbing onto his waist. They both hit the ground with a thud, struggling for control. The man extended his claws, scratching at Logan’s face as he attempted to shift while still clothed. But Logan managed to hook a strong arm around the assassin’s neck, squeezing until a loud snap resounded throughout the room. The dead wolf collapsed immediately upon Logan. Without hesitation, he cursed, removing the hood. Calvin. Marcel’s beta. He’d challenged Marcel?

Logan threw Calvin’s body aside and ran back to Marcel’s side; sirens wailed in the distance. Logan stilled as he came upon the sight of him sprawled on the floor. Oh Goddess no. He fell to his knees, grasping his old friend, pulling him up into his lap.

“Marcel, please man. You’ve gotta shift,” he begged.

“Too late…it’s silver,” Marcel whispered. “Not gonna make it.”

“Goddammit, Marcel. We need you. You can’t leave me. Tristan. Katrina. Hell, your whole pack. Your family. We need you. Now come on and shift,” he demanded.

Marcel coughed up blood and shook his head.

“Where the hell is 911?” Logan screamed, glancing over to the unidentified sobbing woman crumpled in the corner.

“Calvin. It was Calvin,” Marcel grunted.

“Yes. He’s dead. I killed him.” Logan couldn’t think. He’d killed Marcel’s beta. Calvin was the second strongest wolf in the pack. And Marcel, the Alpha, was dying in his arms. This couldn’t be happening.

“Logan, you’re Alpha now.”

“No…listen Marcel, you’re going to make it. I’m not…”

“Yes, you are. Tristan will understand. This is how this works. You know it. You’re my brother too…you’ve got to do this. You have no choice.”

Logan was crying, shaking his head, pulling Marcel’s head to his breast. Goddess no. Please Goddess no.

“Say it,” Marcel choked out, commanding him.

“No, I can’t. Please don’t leave, Marcel.”

“Say it!”

Resigned, Logan took a deep breath. He could hear Marcel’s heartbeat flutter. Tristan was right about nature and fucking goddamn fate. No one could fight her. Logan held his friend silently, listening as his pulse slowed. He swore revenge for his friend…for his pack. As the life faded from Marcel’s eyes, Logan held his gaze and assured his friend.

“I am Alpha.”