Carolina Moon

The Long Road Home: K.C.

The sun was just starting to rise over the Atlantic when we were finally pulling out of the vet clinic. Tess and I were in the back of a heavily modified SUV. My skin still stung from the salves, even under the softness of a fresh flannel, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the dread that was growing in my gut.

I watched Kingsport pass by. Smoke still rose from the industrial district, and as we once again crossed the Marble Arch Bridge, I thought the city itself looked like a wounded animal.

Leon’s enforcers — with the exception of our driver — were in a second car behind us. They were all men who looked at me with more reverence than I ever wanted. I didn’t want to be their king, yet I was the reason they were breathing.

The drive was quiet, with the exception of the hum from the laptop Leon had given Tess. She stared at the screen with the kind of focus that made the air around her feel pressurized. It was the same focus I used to watch at four in the morning while she crammed for her exams.

As we crossed back into South Carolina, I felt the pack booms start to stretch thin. The only anchor I had for it was the men who accompanied us. I could feel the city of Kingsport draining away, my body feeling like it was being stretched and pulled like a rubber band. I was becoming the man with a scorched back and a sense of impending doom, and I wasn’t sure the connection that was left would be enough to keep the lone wolf sickness at bay.

Tess reached over and rested her hand on my knee. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. The connection was a comfort. It grounded me. Even though we were back, the two weeks she’d promised Sylvie weren’t over yet. The quiet morning coffee and the sawdust on the cabin porch were still out of reach.

I watched the trees and the exit signs pass by. Tess turned her laptop towards me. “I found more,” she whispered. “The shell companies aren’t just in Charleston. They aren’t just mapping us. They’re building their own silver nitrate grid across the country. Once they have their census, they can target every wolf-owned business, every pack house, and every sanctuary from here to California.”

I looked at the map. Cypress Hollow was just a tiny dot in western South Carolina. My timber yard and her boutique weren’t just our new homes though. They were physical ground wires for the very system they wanted to use against us.

The Spanish moss and the smell of the marsh was supposed to feel like a warm blanket, but today, they felt like a shroud. We crossed the county line, just miles from Cypress Hollow’s city limits, but the silence suddenly felt wrong.

We drove past Rebel Rose. The closed sign hadn’t been flipped yet, but there was a black sedan parked at the back of the parking lot that definitely didn’t belong. I could only see the hazy silhouette of the driver as they watched us pass.

My wolf rumbled a low, defensive sound. I didn’t need a pack bond to know Cypress Hollow had been infiltrated. The “harvest” Darian laughed about wasn’t just a distant threat.

We pulled up to the bungalow, the porch light still flickering from when Tess left it on. My muscles screamed as I stepped out of the SUV. There was an acrid scent in the air that didn’t belong, then I saw him.

A man in a tailored suit stood in the shadow of the porch holding a clipboard. He wasn’t a regulator, this was something more corporate. A cover. He looked at me, the armored transport, then the five snarling enforcers that were joining us in the driveway.

“Miss Beaumont?” he asked, putting on a show of a bumbling, low-tier employee who didn’t know what he was doing. His voice was as smooth as silk though. “I’m with the Lowcountry Development Group. We’ve been trying to reach you regarding the eminent domain filing on this property. It seems your ‘family emergency’ came at a very busy time for the neighborhood.”

I didn’t shift or growl, even though my wolf’s hackles were raised, and he was ready to go. I simply walked up the steps and towered over him, the soot from Kingsport still on my skin. “The neighborhood is closed. Leave. Now.”

“I wasn’t aware that the Lowcountry Development Group was a government entity,” Tess added, climbing the steps behind me. “There’s laws against taking property for private development. And last I checked, Cypress Hollow didn’t have any public infrastructure proposals in the works. My grandfather is Atticus Beaumont, one call to him, and he’ll have the best lawyers in the state breathing down your neck.”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. Instead, it sharpened. He lost the “bumbling employee” act as he looked at Tess, then the laptop bag secured in her white knuckled grip. “A formidable legacy, Miss Beaumont,” he said, his voice dropping the polite mask. “But Atticus Beaumont built his empire of traditional ledgers. The world is moving towards a more…integrated system of management now.”

He glanced at me, his eyes lingering on the soot-stained collar of my flannel and the raw, red skin of my neck. He didn’t look afraid of the enforcers fanning out across the lawn either.

“Your neighborhood isn’t just a collection of houses anymore, Miss Beaumont,” he continued as he stepped off the porch. “The Lowcountry Development Group doesn’t just build condos. We stabilize territories. You have forty-eight hours to vacate.”

He tucked the clipboard under his arm as he passed the enforcers like they weren’t even there. My eyes narrowed, the wolf snarling in the back of my mind as I watched him cross the street to a parked Mercedes. He turned back around just as he reached the sedan. “Oh, and Miss Beaumont? Your grandfather is a very old man. It would be a shame if his final audit was a… total loss.”

A predatory grin spread across his lips as he climbed inside the car. The engine roared to life with an expensive hum, and my eyes didn’t leave it until it turned off the street.