Don't Call Me Luna

DAVE The Prodigal Beta Returns (For Dinner and Disappointment) The Westwood estate loomed against the dying Kentucky light like a monument to everything I'd never wanted to become. My truck—a 2015 Ford that had survived more honest work than my entire bloodline—rumbled to a stop between Victoria's Lamborghini and Harrison's latest attempt to express himself through shiny, expensive things. Blood called to blood. Even from the circular drive, I could feel them inside, my pack family radiating the kind of predatory energy that made lesser wolves bare their throats and file tax returns early. My wolf stirred beneath my skin, a restless thing I'd caged so deep I sometimes forgot it had teeth. Not yet, I told it. We're not ready for what we really are. "Sir's home!" Carl the chickadee announced from his oak throne, setting off an avian communication network that would've impressed the CIA. "Just Dave, Carl. We've discussed the protocol thing." The little bird tittered, but his black eyes held something like respect. In my world, that was rarer than honest politicians and about as useful. Margaret the blue jay dive-bombed my shoulder with the precision of a heat-seeking missile, talons finding purchase in my Habitat for Humanity shirt. The cotton was soft from too many washings, carrying the scent of honest sweat and sawdust—everything the Westwood name wasn't. "The squirrels are hoarding again," she announced, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Steven's got three months of acorns in your mansion's attic." "Winter prep isn't a crime, Mags." "Market manipulation is." By the time I reached the front door, I'd acquired enough birds to qualify as a biblical plague. Each one carried their own crisis, their own small-scale apocalypse that somehow mattered more than whatever corporate warfare waited inside. The carved oak portal swung open before I could knock. Mrs. Warner stood framed in golden light, her smile radiating the kind of warmth that could thaw nuclear winter. She'd been cleaning up after Westwood disappointments since before I'd learned to walk upright and disappoint properly. "Master David." Her voice carried forty years of fond exasperation. "They're particularly focused on your shortcomings tonight." "Sunday tradition. Like church, but with more psychological damage." I bent so she could reach the spot where Bernard had expressed his opinion of my punctuality through strategic defecation. Her handkerchief smelled like lavender and the kind of legitimacy money couldn't buy. "Your mother's playing defense, but your father's already mentioned Harvard twice." "I didn't even apply to Harvard." "Has that ever stopped him?" The dining room doors opened with the weight of inevitability. My family arranged themselves like a Renaissance painting titled Disappointment Served at Eight. Dad presided at the head, alpha energy rolling off him in waves that made the crystal glasses sing with tension. Max flanked him, thumbs flying over his phone with the fury of someone dismantling small countries for sport. Victoria held court in a dress that probably had an Italian name, wearing an expression that could strip paint and dignity with equal efficiency. "David." Mom rose with omega grace wrapped in designer steel. Every movement calculated, every breath a tactical decision in a war I'd never agreed to fight. "Precisely on time." Which was Sylvia Westwood for thank God you showed up before your father started measuring your failures against his expectations. I kissed her cheek, catching the scent that meant home and careful maneuvering. She squeezed my hand—morse code only we understood: courage, my sweet summer child, courage. "Is that a Habitat shirt?" Ophelia's nose wrinkled like I'd brought roadkill to the table. Given Dad's expression, roadkill might've been preferable. "Finished the Rodriguez house today. Three bedrooms, reinforced basement for their daughter's monthly transformations." "How... charitable." Harrison poured wine that could've funded entire orphanages. "Tell me, does manual labor pay well? Or are you still playing public defender for creatures who compensate in poultry?" "Mrs. Chen's chickens are heritage breeds. And otherkind deserve representation." Dad's sigh could've powered wind turbines. "Twenty-nine years old. Yale Law Review. And you're bartering like some medieval peasant." "Medieval peasants had sustainable trade systems. Very forward-thinking." Silence fell like a guillotine blade. Even the chandelier seemed to dim in secondhand embarrassment, crystal teardrops trembling with unspoken judgment. Dinner arrived in courses designed to remind everyone of their net worth. Seared things that had died expensively. Braised things that had lived in luxury before their sacrifice. Things that had been merely threatened by truffle oil. Conversation flowed around me like water around a stubborn stone: mergers that destroyed lives, acquisitions that consumed souls, and who was devouring whom in the eternal feast of Wealthy Wolf Monopoly. My wolf paced its cage, restless and hungry for something that wasn't served on bone china. "David's still single," Cordelia announced during the fish course, because apparently tonight's entertainment was public humiliation. "Melissa Ashworth asked about you at the Derby gala." "That's nice." "Nice?" Victoria's laugh could've etched glass and stripped souls. "She's omega royalty from one of Kentucky's oldest packs. Perfect breeding stock." "She's a person, not livestock." "In our world, darling brother, the distinction is academic." Max finally surfaced from his digital warfare. "Are you gay? It's fine if you are. Harrison's bi and nobody cares." "I care," Harrison protested. "I've cultivated a very specific image of mysterious sexuality. It's excellent for business negotiations." "I'm not gay." Though explaining twenty-nine years of voluntary celibacy to a family who treated s*x like hostile takeovers would require more alcohol than Kentucky produced. "Asexual then?" Ophelia leaned forward with the hunger of someone who'd discovered a new species to dissect. "That's very trendy. We could market it." "I'm just selective." The words tasted like ash and unfulfilled promises. Dad snorted, the sound sharp enough to shatter wine glasses and dreams. "Selective. That's what we're calling failure now?" "Cyrill." Mom's voice could've frozen hell's heating bill and sent the devil scrambling for sweaters. "What? The boy builds houses for degenerates, represents criminals for chickens, and can't even mount an omega properly. At least homosexuality would have some dignity." The wolf under my skin stretched, claws scraping against ribs I'd reinforced with meditation and stubbornness. Just once. Just enough to remind me that disappointment was a choice, not genetic destiny. "Speaking of disappointments," Mom said with the timing of someone who'd orchestrated symphonies of destruction, "the Council called for you, David." Forks suspended midair like synchronized swimmers frozen in time. Wine glasses paused at lips. Even Max's thumbs stopped their economic apocalypse. "The Council?" Dad's interest sharpened like a blade finding flesh. "What could they want with—" He gestured at me like I was Exhibit A in the museum of genetic failures. "The Lightfoot situation." Mom sipped wine with the casualness of someone detonating nuclear devices at garden parties. "They need someone to integrate a rogue pack. Given David's... unique approach to pack relations, they felt he'd be ideal." "Lightfoot?" Victoria's eyes narrowed to laser points. "That feral creature who sells moonshine at gun shows? She's still breathing?" "Katana Lightfoot leads ninety-seven rogues now. The Council's given them ninety days to legitimize or face disbandment." "Disbandment." Harrison smiled like Christmas came wrapped in body bags. "Such a delicate euphemism for extermination." My wolf stirred again, restless and eager for something that wasn't suffocating dinner conversation. I thought of calm lakes, of wood joints fitting perfectly, of Mrs. Rodriguez crying when we handed her keys to a home that wouldn't devour her daughter's future. "Why David?" Max demanded. "Send an enforcer. Send literally anyone who doesn't want to rehabilitate them with drum circles and interpretive dance." "I don't do drum circles." Much. Anymore. "The Council specifically requested him." Mom's tone suggested the Council had been specifically convinced to request me, but subtlety was wasted on people who solved problems with checkbooks and claw marks. "Absolutely not." Dad's fist met mahogany with the authority of someone who toppled governments before breakfast. "No Westwood wastes time playing social worker to trailer trash. Decline immediately." "Actually," I heard myself say with the certainty of someone stepping off cliffs and trusting gravity, "I think I'll accept." The explosion could've registered on seismographs. Threats about inheritance (didn't want it), legacy (overrated), and the Westwood name (a burden masquerading as blessing) flew like shrapnel in a war I'd never enlisted for. Through it all, Mom sat serene as a queen watching pawns discover they were playing checkers at a chess tournament. "You'll need to live on-site," she mentioned when the nuclear fallout settled to manageable levels. "Full integration requires complete commitment." "Live there?" Cordelia looked like she'd swallowed something poor and diseased. "In a trailer? Our brother?" "Jesus wept." Harrison reached for more wine like a man grasping lifelines. "Next you'll be shopping at Walmart." "Their prices are remarkably competitive." "This is unacceptable." Dad rose, alpha dominance radiating like a nuclear solution to a problem requiring bandaids. "I forbid it." The smart play was submission. Bare throat, lowered eyes, another decade building houses for other people's dreams while mine fossilized in my chest. Another lifetime being the beta who couldn't even disappoint with proper technique. Instead, I stood. All six feet six inches of inadequate genetics wrapped in thrift store virtue and a spine that had finally located its steel. "With respect, I'm twenty-nine. I don't need permission to help people." "Help people?" His laugh could've curdled milk in cows three counties away. "You're playing dress-up in work boots while real wolves build empires. You're an embarrassment to everything we've built." "Then it's fortunate I won't be using the family name at the compound." I left them choking on that revelation, walking out while my siblings performed variations on "you'll crawl back" in the key of privileged disbelief. Outside, my congregation waited with the patience of voters at town halls. "How'd it go?" Carl asked from his oak throne. "I'm moving to an allegedly haunted trailer park to help rogues led by someone named after a weapon." Margaret cackled like chaos incarnate. "The one with the wendigo rumors? Bernard's cousin disappeared trying to nest there." "My dumbass cousin tried to nest in what someone claimed was a wendigo skull collection," Bernard protested. "Could've been regular human skulls." "Still ominous. Dave needs protection." Rascal the raccoon emerged from topiary shadows, wearing what looked suspiciously like Cordelia's missing bracelet. "I know people." "Thank you, but I'll manage." "You sure?" A possum materialized carrying three babies like the world's most dedicated single mother. "That Lightfoot woman shot the last Council representative. With rock salt. In sensitive areas." "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding." The animals exchanged looks suggesting I was the dumbest predator they'd ever adopted. "At least take seeds," Carl insisted. "Befriend local birds. They'll identify threats." "And rabid creatures," Margaret added helpfully. I drove through Kentucky darkness, my truck protesting every pothole like mechanical drama incarnate. Tomorrow I'd trade Egyptian cotton for whatever thread count accompanied condemned property. Leave behind my safe, small existence for something that might actually matter. My wolf stirred one final time before I locked it down with meditation and pure stubbornness. It felt... excited. Like a child promised Disney World after decades of elevator music. Not yet, I told it. Settle down. But packing my life into boxes, serenaded by three cats, two possums, and something in the ceiling that might've been a very small dragon, I wondered if anyone was ever ready for the truth. My phone buzzed. Mom's text: The compound's address. And David? Local folklore claims the wendigo appreciates classical music. Particularly Vivaldi. A wendigo with refined taste. Naturally. I fell asleep to concerned wildlife, dreaming of a woman named after a blade, a pack that shouldn't exist, and the alpha I'd buried so deep even I'd forgotten the funeral. Tomorrow, everything would change. Tonight, I remained Dave Westwood: virgin carpenter-lawyer, disappointment son, and Disney princess to every creature with fur, feathers, or questionable hygiene. But at least I was attempting to matter. Even if it destroyed me. Which, given the wendigo rumors, seemed statistically probable but oddly poetic.