Hello again. I'd love to give an exotic excuse for not updating this, but the truth is simply two months of overtime. Guess this will actually hit the right season after all. Please enjoy, and as always, feedback is welcome.
Oh, and I still don't own Bitten or the characters.
Less six hours later, Nick sat in Jeremy's study with a steaming cup of coffee and admired the Pack's handiwork. Decorating had gone as smoothly as it could with two stubborn artists and five clueless werewolves. To his mind, the traditional pine boughs, red bows, and candles contrasted nicely with the wood paneling and darker tones with which the room was currently decorated. The Christmas tree they, or rather Elena, had chosen that morning stood prominently in one corner, the many ornaments sparkling in the light and casting prismatic reflections around the room. Nick was just glad that Jeremy had forbade putting lights up outside the house, fearing the attention it might draw from holiday light gazers, whatever the hell they were. To him, climbing all over the house's stone facade to put up lights seemed too much like work. Even without the outside decorations, the Pack appeared to be drained from its display of human normalcy.
Jeremy and his father were standing by one window, staring out into the fading light as the snowstorm that his Alpha had predicted roared harmlessly against Stonehaven's walls. Elena sat leaning against Clay, calmly flipping through the images she had somehow captured on her camera during the chaos of decorating while her mate read an article on anthropology. Logan and Pete were playing a game of poker, their enhanced senses making an ordinarily challenging game into a farce of cheating and halfhearted attempts at misdirection. It looked like fun.
Nick rose from his place in Jeremy's favorite armchair and crossed over to top his coffee off with more brandy when Elena stiffened and looked up from her camera's screen.
"Jeremy!" At Elena's warning, everyone in the room went from relaxed to ready for a fight in an instant. Clay moved to his father's side, article forgotten, while Pete and Logan abandoned their card game and stood, ready for Jeremy's orders. Nick put his coffee cup down and strained his senses to detect whatever it was that Elena had smelled. First Jeremy, then his father, and finally Clay, nodded their heads slowly, and moved en masse to the front door. Nick followed, still trying to pick up whatever it was that had everyone so on edge. He marveled that, even with a snowstorm doing its best to bring the walls down around them, Elena could still detect a scent that didn't belong.
Just as he stepped outside, Nick heard the muted growling of a vehicle engine over the whining of the wind. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to start laying off the alcohol a bit. He'd been drinking since they had brought the tree back to the house, and even with his inhumanly fast metabolism he had been feeling a comfortable buzz for some time.
As if he could read his mind, Jeremy turned briefly to raise an eyebrow at the younger Sorrentino, but his attention moved back to the drive as an old truck from Detroit's glory days chugged into view. The Pack had arranged themselves in a semicircle in front of Stonehaven's steps, with Jeremy at the center. No one had bothered to grab coats or other cold weather gear from the hallway before coming outside, and to Nick's eye they looked extremely out of place with snow settling around them and the wind trying to tear the clothing off of them.
The truck slowed to a stop and turned off with a noise that was not unlike a death rattle, and a mutt stepped out, covered from head to toe with foul weather clothing, in stark contrast to the Pack.
Jeremy studied the intruder to his sanctum carefully. Unlike himself and his Pack, the mutt was, oddly to his mind, dressed well against the cold. The clothing itself was ill-fitting and worn, patched in places and heavily stained in others. It was odd enough for a werewolf to be this concerned about the cold, but in his experience, mutts rarely held on to clothing long enough to care if it was neatly patched. They wore through what they had and stole more, or purchased it with stolen money.
The mutt took several steps forward and stopped, head and face hidden by the overhang of the fur lined hood of his parka. Clay growled deep in his throat and started to move towards the interloper, but Jeremy's hand on his shoulder stopped him. Instead, Jeremy stepped forward, asserting both his authority and his intention to protect his Pack.
"Who are you? What are your intentions here? This is Stonehaven, the heart of Pack territory, and you were most certainly not invited."
The stranger laughed bitterly and threw the hood of his parka back to reveal the face of an old man, permanently tanned and lined by weather and the stresses of life itself. Jeremy stood frozen, in disbelief as much as shock. Behind him, Elena gasped, and he heard varied curses from the other members of his Pack. The man in front of them was most certainly a werewolf, his scent alone made that clear enough, but he appeared to be decades older than Jeremy, who was himself in his late sixties and still looked to be half that age.
"The whole world is Pack territory, Mr. Danvers. We Mutts just get by with whatever table scraps you care to share with us, or with whatever we can take ourselves."
"That may be true, but that doesn't explain what you are doing here." To his left, Clay growled again, louder this time. Jeremy continued, as if he hadn't heard. "By the way, this is Clay Danvers, my son. I'm sure his reputation precedes him."
The mutt nodded civilly to the younger Danvers, before returning his attention to the Alpha standing in front of him.
"Yes, yes, I've heard of his savagery in dealing with rogue mutts, as well as with any who challenge your authority, Danvers." He turned to Elena, causing all of the Pack to stiffen instinctually. "I have also heard of you, my dear. The only woman to survive being bitten. You are, indeed, a rare gem of the highest quality." The Mutt bowed elegantly.
"You still have not stated your purpose in coming here, mutt." Jeremy's voice had turned to steel and ice, and this time he made no attempt to restrain Clay when he took a step toward the intruder.
"It's quite simple, really. My name is Séamus, though most call me Jim these days. Don't have much of a second name, or at least none that I've used these last fifty years." The Mutt's voice remained casual, friendly even, but he began stripping out of his layers of clothing. In a distant corner of his mind, Jeremy noted that the increasingly worn and tattered layers revealed a frail body that, like its owner's face, was weathered and scarred. "See, Alpha, I'm old. Older than any werewolf, particularly a mutt, has any right to be. I've seen the world, and seen it burn, seen it set straight again, but not quite how it was before. I've seen horrors and wonders, life and death; I've seen it all, Danvers, and I'm tired. The world's changing again, I can feel it. But this time, I've no desire to see what the future holds. Man wasn't made to live forever, and neither were werewolves. In short, Alpha, I've come to die."
Jeremy studied the mutt in front of him. Jim, he'd said his name was. He'd discarded all of his clothing save for a threadbare undershirt and patched jeans in obvious preparation for a fight, but despite the trespass on his territory, he wasn't sure he would oblige the old man.
"Why come here? There are easier, and less painful, ways to get yourself killed, old man." Jim snorted and shook his head.
"Not looking to kill myself, young un." Jeremy felt himself tempted towards a smile at being called 'young'. "I'm looking to die. There's a difference, see. Our kind, we weren't meant to grow old and die peacefully in our sleep. Our own natures see to that, but for some reason, I have. Grown old that is, not the dying part, not yet. Anyway, I don't want to wait around in this decrepit old body for another decade before I finally kick it. I want to go out fighting, and who better to challenge than the Alpha?"
As he contemplated his response, Jeremy noted that his Pack had relaxed somewhat. Clay was still tense, but not to the point of being ready to spring at any moment. Instead, his son seemed confused, trying to determine if the mutt before them posed any real threat to anyone but himself. Elena, he was somewhat surprised to see, had a sympathetic look on her face. Antonio, Pete, and Logan were still scanning the area, as if considering whether this could be a ploy to get close to their Alpha, but all three were also surreptitiously trying to warm themselves against the increasingly violent wind which whipped snow around them. Nick was openly hopping from foot to foot, hands shoved under his armpits. Jeremy noticed for the first time that the younger Sorrentino was barefoot, and barely contained the grin that threatened to split his face. Maybe he'd learn a lesson. Then again, it was Nick. Sighing, he turned back to the mutt that had trespassed on his sacred ground.
"Jim, you said it was." The mutt only nodded. "Well, as much as I hate to disappoint you, I'm not in the mood for killing at the moment." Clay grumbled, but Jeremy knew that he likely wasn't inclined to kill the old werewolf any more than his father. At least not unless he posed an actual threat to anything more than a housefly.
"I've trespassed, and broken Pack law these last thirty or more years. Now what do you have to say to that, Danvers?" Jeremy snorted again, this time not bothering to hide the humor that crept into his voice.
"I suspect that you are going to tell me that you settled down in some out of the way place, in expectation of your impending death? Montana, maybe? Alaska? The Canadian Rockies? No matter. I don't kill children, and having now been confronted by an elderly werewolf, a situation I never quite imagined myself in, I find myself extremely reluctant to kill you, although I could order Clay to do so." Clay glanced at him, and his son's unease with that idea rolled off him in waves.
"Jeremy. You wouldn't." Elena's appalled response came from behind him.
"No, I wouldn't. In fact, I'm more inclined to invite you in for a drink, given that you pose no threat to my Pack, and sending you on your way in this snow in that junk heap you arrived in would be a death sentence itself. What do you say, Jim?"
"I will have you know that that junk heap, as you call it, is an extremely well cared for 1955 Ford. But, you are right in that she'd be outclassed in this weather. So, if you refuse to fight me, then yes, I will accept your offer." He bent down to retrieve his discarded clothing, now thoroughly caked in snow.
As he turned around to return to the house, Jeremy leaned in to speak quietly to Clay. "Keep an eye on him. I really don't think he is a threat, but this is somewhat unprecedented." Clay, who had remained facing Jim, only grunted. "Oh, and send Pete or Logan to the attic to find some dry clothes that will fit him."