Longing For A Luna

Chapter 8: Dinner For Two II of II

I sat there in shock, placing one hand on top of my heart. Every time I heard a story about repercussions from the Rebirth and thought, ‘This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard,’ something else even more terrible came along.

“That wasn’t the end of it,” he continued, “Some of the members outside of the pack house rushed in and tried to save the ones who were trapped. They got stuck and died, too. And you want to know the cherry on top of this s**t sundae? The handful of wolves who had found and accepted their fated mates felt it when their mates were dying. They felt it, Danielle. They could feel their mates’ pain as they were burned alive.”

Ben looked so crestfallen; almost broken. I wished I could reach through the computer and give him a hug, especially when he called me “Danielle” instead of “Fred”. He’d only done that a few other times since we’d known each other.

“Ben, I…I don’t know what to say. That is f*****g horrible; all of it. When did this happen? It’s been eight months since the Rebirth and I haven’t seen or heard anything about it.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them. His usually sparkling green eyes had dulled with the heaviness of what he’d just told me.

“It happened right after the Rebirth, and the Council is keeping it quiet so you can’t say anything to Nick about it. I can’t tell you the location, but this pack is in the mountains and kind of isolated. The explosion took out their server and cell tower. It was still winter when this all went down. Their snow plows were damaged, either from the explosion or sabotage, so the survivors were stranded because of snow and ice on the roads to the base of the mountain; not that it mattered.”

“What do you mean?” I interjected.

“The survivors didn’t want to contact anyone for help at first. They weren’t sure how they'd explain it to human authorities, and they were worried another werewolf pack would either just attack them, cause another wave of Rebirth insanity, or both. They had enough food and supplies to last for months. The pack doctor was one of the survivors, and he finally convinced them a couple of months ago to reach out for help. They sent a few wolves down the mountain to the human town so they could call the Council for help. The Alpha had given the doctor his phone before he went into the packhouse and told him who to call if things went south.”

“And then the Council contacted Blue Moon,” I added, and Ben nodded solemnly.

Blue Moon had not been hit as hard as other packs by the effects of the Rebirth, thanks to Alpha Phillip’s leadership. The morning it happened, Alpha Phillip put everyone on lockdown just after the work day started when he realized it was needed. Being situated in a large city meant we were surrounded by humans, and pack leadership was afraid of attracting attention from human authorities. We had to stay at home for a couple of weeks while they figured out what was going on and how to move forward. On the days I was scheduled to go to the office, I kept calling out sick with the “flu” and my poor human boss sent me deliveries of soup and juice.

The Central Werewolf Council had simply been a figurehead for decades. They occasionally mediated between packs who had border disputes and always attended the inauguration of new Alphas, but other than that they were seen mostly as a relic of the old ways. They were absolutely unprepared to be of any help with the consequences of the Rebirth. Since Blue Moon had more resources and manpower than most other packs, especially now, the Council had asked Alpha Phillip for help. Blue Moon has been contracted several times to clean-up hostage situations and mass casualty events caused by the Rebirth. Ben has worked for the pack's security company since college, and as a top warrior with unmatched tech skills he's been assigned to every one of the Rebirth missions.

“Ben, I’m worried about you. This situation sounds like it's been extremely taxing to deal with, physically and mentally.”

I tried to keep my voice even, but the concern for my friend and my anxiety level after hearing the story of this pack was overwhelming.

“I’m okay, Fred. Thanks for listening,” He wiped his hand down his face and forced a smile, “Let’s talk about something else.”

We sat there on the video call as we finished our respective dinners and rehashed the strategies we’d used earlier. We had been playing for a couple of hours and kept getting ambushed before Ben asked if I was wearing my lucky shirt. I realized I wasn’t and quickly went to change. Things went considerably better after that and I was still waiting to receive a slightly obnoxious “I told you so,” from Ben.

Ben paused between bites at one point, “Think of how much worse things could’ve been if I hadn’t reminded you about the shirt.”

There it was.

I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t fall out of my head.

“Ben, you are one of the smartest, most educated people I know and yet you cling to this…this superstitious belief about this stupid shirt.”

He looked at me, shocked, “Don’t talk like that about the shirt. Besides, is it being superstitious if it works? Remember that game three years ago, when both of us were almost dead, with no healing potions, and we wandered into that pit of vipers? Or what about that disastrous Christmas raid, when we were separated from the others and that mage kept building walls around us? Or what about freshman year of college…”

“Okay, okay, okay. I got it. The shirt has always been present when we pull ourselves out of impossible situations. I get it. I just don’t understand why you don’t have to wear a lucky shirt, too.”

Ben chuckled, his deep voice warm and teasing.

“Fred, none of my shirts from high school or college fit me anymore. It just worked out where you’re the keeper of the magical shirt, I guess.”

This allegedly magical shirt was a cotton blend black T-shirt with the faded likeness of a cartoon chicken holding a biscuit. It came from the fast food place I worked at during my junior and senior years of high school. It was at least three sizes too big, had dark spots from grease stains, and the seam on the tail of the shirt was ragged from being washed a million times. Somewhere along the way it had turned into my lucky shirt. Probably because I was often wearing it during our late night gaming sessions in high school after coming home from work.

Due to deep purging of old clothes through the years, it was the only survivor from the collection of oversized T-shirts I wore in high school. It took a few years away from Crescent Lake before I could completely let go of the habit of hiding in those hugely oversized t-shirts, but I just couldn't let this one go. Some memories were in need of keeping.