Chapter Twenty
Len had not wanted his wife to stand with him, but she was insistent, and he knew better than to gainsay her when she was this riled up.
"I can't hide," Claire told him, "She'll know I'm there."
"I'd rather you were out of the way. I'm not carrying silver," he reminded her, "She'll know that."
"Len, you didn't see her," Claire said levelly, "She is so angry. At both of us. And when she sees you..."
"We don't have a choice," Len spat back. "I don't have a choice! I can't live like this, Claire."
"I know," she whispered, at a loss, "But what if..." she left the question hanging.
"We can't afford 'what ifs'," Len growled, "We have to talk to her. I have to explain. You locked and loaded?"
Claire felt for the small talisman that would anchor the spell she hoped she wouldn't have to use, and nodded, feeling ashamed. "I never cast anything at any of our girls. Never. If I use this, she'll never forgive me."
"You reckon she's about as angry as it's possible to be already," he snapped at her, "It's only a last-resort in case this really goes pear-shaped. Can it stop her if she's shapeshifted?"
"Slow her down, at least," Claire chuckled with despair, "Let's hope we don't have to find out."
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Ronnie checked the clip, then the weapon. It was one she hadn't used for some time, but it was always in her truck, tucked away somewhere, oiled and ready for use, in case she needed it one day – she'd never thought in a million years that this would be the situation when she reached for it. She smiled, taking in the quality of the silver rounds. She'd been good, even back then, when she was just a teenager: the finish was flawless.
Taking her father's gun had been a demonstration of her intent, and her resolve. Don't come after me. Next time, I will return fire.
She would return fire, all right. He so much as twitched, and she'd turn him into a tea strainer. With his own gun. With her own ammo. It would be hilariously fitting. And what a great yarn that would have made, if there was anybody to take note of it. Ronnie Shepherd's dad tracked her down, twenty years after she left, and when he went for his weapon, she shot him with his own gun, with the ammo she'd cast when she was just a kid. The wolf that Hunts. The wolf that will save your arse if she can. The wolf that never kills. Unless you cross her.
Of course, if Len Shepherd just disappeared whilst looking for his daughter, they would probably tell that tale anyway, along with half a dozen other variants. Hunters were such bullshit artists, Australian ones doubly so. The idea of what those tales might be amused her enormously. After she'd told her parents to go and fuck themselves and get the hell away from her and hers, she might even start a couple herself, release them into the electronic ether, and let human imagination embroider them.
She put the gun down and walked away from it, nose to the wind, on the alert for him, to see what ammo he was carrying. If he was loaded with silver, she'd have to do it from a distance. A shame, because she'd rather see his face.
The breeze shifted, swirled through the trees, and brought a scent she recognised instantly.
Dad.
He was here. And, bugger it, her mother was with him. She sniffed again. There was no hint of silver weaponry of any sort...
Another choppy gust brought a surprise – she gasped, and actually fell on her butt in astonishment, where she sat, mouth open, in disbelief.
Then she crammed her fist into her mouth to stifle her screams of laughter.
Alpha? Joni nudged at her, sniffing the new scents herself, uncertain as to what Ronnie found so funny. Your Sire is here.
Ronnie regained control of herself, and stood up, radiating authority, and menace. My Sire is here. And my Dam. I am Alpha. This is pack business.
Pack business, echoed Joni, content in her understanding.
Ronnie felt a strange anticipation, a heady awareness of her own strengths. It was the wolf, she realised, the thing she'd fought to keep under control since she'd been bitten. On the inside, the monster inside howled with eager bloodlust, straining at the leash.
She tucked the gun into her waistband, out of the way. She didn't want it any more. Her fangs descended, and she didn't even try to stop them.
She didn't even really hope he would last long enough to give her a satisfying bout. That would be a very human thought. This was now about asserting herself as quickly as possible. This was about winning. Pack business.
The roar into the night burst from her, echoing through the woods, not a challenge, a promise.
I AM ALPHA!
Joni followed, posture respectful, keeping her distance. Whatever transpired between a dominant member and another individual was between them alone to settle; no other member of a pack would interfere until it was over.
She would not approach until her Alpha's Sire was dead.
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Crowley's hasty translocation into the woods was a bit off-target.
"Wrong clearin', asshat," humphed Bobby. "Where are they?"
"I was in a hurry!" Crowley protested, "That way."
"What are you playin' at here, you asshole?" Bobby growled, looking upwards at the stars to get his bearings. "How the hell do you know about this?"
"I'm the King of Hell!" Crowley replied, "I make it my business to know these things!"
"And why do you make it your business to drop little tidbits of intel to brides-to-be, huh?" pressed Sam.
"I didn't want them to show up, unexpected, and spoil the whole occasion!" Crowley bleated, pushing distastefully at the shadowed greenery, "I wanted to warn Ronnie, so she could deal with this discreetly!"
"Discreetly?" Sam sounded incredulous. "Did you just use the words 'Ronnie' and 'discreetly' in the same sentence?"
"I didn't want your little holiday to be spoiled by violence, bloodshed and ruined haberdashery, Bobby!" Crowley smiled winningly. "Is that so difficult to believe, darling?"
"Yes," Bobby snapped.
"Why?" Dean snarled, "Why do a favour for Bobby, without letting him know you'd done him a favour? What's the point if he doesn't know you've done it? It don't make sense."
"But I am letting you know!" Crowley practically wailed, "I told you, didn't I? We're here, aren't we?"
"But you weren't plannin' to," guessed Dean, "Your entrance was a little panicky, Your Hellside Highness, wasn't it, hmmmmm?"
"What's in it for you, Crowley?" Bobby demanded.
"Nothing!" insisted Crowley, eyeing Jimi warily as the dog continued to slaver at him.
"Then why do you care about what happens next?" Bobby was relentless. "Why do you care about Andrew gettin' involved? You told Ronnie her folks were on her trail, you told her they were close, you knew how she'd react..."
"Look," Crowley began in a placatory tone, "I just wanted her to go and see them off..."
"See them off?" Bobby interrupted. "There's a significant chance she'll do more than that – either of 'em says a wrong word, looks at her sideways, she'll commit bloody murder!"
"Well, means to an end, and all that," Crowley shrugged, "I just wanted her to make the problem go away before it even began, so you could just relax, and enjoy the delightful company of those charming spinsters, you could always claim to be a Mormon, you know, then you wouldn't have to choose..."
There was a long, carrying roar from the woodland, redolent of anger, promising violence.
"Balls," muttered Bobby, "Sounds like Madam Discreetly is on her way. Come on." He began to push through the greenery, with the others following, Crowley letting out the odd yelp of protest as Dean bent springy branches then let them go to thwack into him.
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Claire had expected her daughter to come charging out of the woods, an unstoppable rush of anger. The soundless appearance from the trees was unsettling. The fangs didn't help.
"Dad," Ronnie smiled unpleasantly, and began to move across the clearing in a way that could only be described as stalking.
"Ronnie." Len's voice held a mix of sadness, regret and desperation. "Ronnie. I'm... I have to talk to you."
"Who knows?" she asked without preamble. "Who knows you're here, and why?"
"Nobody," Claire replied, "We've been careful."
"Oh, I'll bet," Ronnie sneered, "How long do you think you can keep it quiet?"
"Not forever," Len stated, "We know that. Ronnie, I need to talk to you..."
With a bound she was across the distance separating them, grabbing his jacket, pulling him down to snarl into his face. "Talk?" she demanded, "You want to talk? Twenty years ago, I came to you to try to explain what was happening, what I could do, what I could become, and you came to murder me – and now, now, you want to talk?"
"Ronnie," Len pleaded, "I'm so sorry, I am so sorry, I had no idea. It's different now, I think I understand..."
"You don't!" she hissed, more of her wolf teeth showing, "Don't you dare say that to me! You do not bloody understand!" She pushed him roughly, throwing him to the ground. "You have no fucking idea!"
"Ronnie, we are so sorry, love, we really are..." Claire told her, voice trembling as Len climbed back to his feet.
"Yeah, I'll bet," Ronnie scoffed.
"I miss my wingwoman," Len said. "I miss knowing that you had my back. I miss your help, Ronnie. I'm your dad, and I need your help."
"You're my dad," she echoed. "A father should be there to protect his children, isn't that what you said? You weren't. I could have forgiven you that. I had forgiven you that. But when I needed it, and you could've, you didn't protect me after all, did you?" She was livid. "You Hunted me, Dad! You didn't protect me, you Hunted me! You passed on the intel, and you Hunted me! I couldn't stay in one place for more than a couple of months, I had to keep one eye open 24/7, I was on my own! I didn't have anybody to help me, or cover for me, I had to figure it out by myself! So don't you dare stand there and tell me you understand!"
Her parents were shocked into silence in the face of her rage.
Ronnie took a deep breath, trying to get hold of her anger. "I couldn't even take Diesel with me. He was too old, and I couldn't explain to him why I had to go. He looked up at me, and I could feel his confusion, but he wagged his tail, because he trusted me. And I never went back." She blinked hard. "I was just a kid, and you threw me to the..." she stopped herself, letting out a snort of laughter. "I was going to say, 'threw me to the wolves'," she chuckled. "But you threw me to the Hunters. You knew I could control it, but you didn't care. You cut me loose, and set the dogs on me." She stared at him. "I will never forgive you for that."
Claire tried again. "Please, Ronnie, we are your family..."
"No," she cut her mother off calmly, not taking her eyes off her father, "You are my Sire, but this is my territory. You are not my Pack. You were an idiot to come here, when you knew how it would end…"
Len shifted his balance a little, ready to counter an attack. "I trained you up, love," he told her gently, "Don't make me do this. I might be slower than I was, but you know what they say about age and treachery."
"Yeah," Ronnie smiled, "It gets the shit knocked out of it when it's dumb enough to get into the grid square of an Alpha that doesn't want it there."
It happened so fast they barely saw it. She threw the first punch, which staggered him, then Claire let out a scream as Ronnie drew back her hand, wolf claws extruding.
"Pack business," she growled, drawing back her arm for a killing strike, "I am Alpha. And your arse is mine."
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"Ow! OW! That one had thorns on it! Oh, look at this jacket, it's ruined! You're doing it on purpose, Winchester, don't think I don't know..."
The scream cut through the night air.
"Balls," said Bobby again, breaking into a run, "That's just up ahead!"
They broke into the clearing in time to see the bizarre tableau: Ronnie held a man in his sixties by the front of his jacket, and was preparing to tear out his throat, whilst a woman, presumably her mother, fumbled in her pocket.
"Oh, what a relief," sighed Crowley, "I really thought that big lunk would get here..."
"What?" snapped Sam in disbelief. "What?"
Dean didn't wait to hear the answer: Dean saw, Dean acted. He shot across the grass and ploughed into Ronnie like a freight train. He was physically bigger than her, so the impact knocked her clear off her feet and several feet sideways.
Dean rolled clear as she came up snarling. "NO!" he bellowed at her, "DON'T!"
The answering wordless roar would've scared off anybody else. "Get out of my way," she garbled around her wolf teeth, "This is Pack business. Pack business!"
"I don't care if it's Oprah!" he shouted back, "Don't do this! This is not you, Ronnie! You are a Hunter, not a murderer! You kill monsters. The wolf that Hunts! The wolf that doesn't kill humans!"
She stopped dead, and stared at him. Then, she started to laugh, a horrible, menacing sound.
"You're right," she nodded. "You are right. I only kill monsters."
"Crowley," growled Bobby, as they approached carefully, "What the fuck is goin' on, here? Answer me, or I swear, you piece of shit, I will end you!"
Crowley actually looked sheepish. "Well," he began, "It occurs to me now, that when I dropped in on young Veronica to warn her about her parents being here in the good ol' U.S. of A. looking for her, I may have left out one teeny weeny little detail, hardly worth mentioning…"
Bobby reached out and slapped him upside the head. "What?" he demanded.
A look of understanding dawned on Ronnie's face, and her awful laughter rang out again. "Oh, of course! You couldn't know!" She grabbed Dean by his jacket lapels, and casually tossed him aside to crash into his brother and take them both down in an awkward heap, then she strode back towards her father. "I knew straight away, though."
She grabbed her father by the throat, and dragged him upright. "He's older. Slower. And he should've given up on the Hunt while he could." She grinned maliciously. "Because old, slow Hunters get hurt. Or, in this case, bitten."
She let that sink in, and chuckled at their horrified faces.
"That's right, folks," she barked, "My old man's a werewolf!"
Gaaaaah! Bruce! What the hell are you doing? The plot bunny clearly has myxomatosis of the brain. Feed him reviews, because Reviews are the Amusingly Dishevelled King Of Hell On The Woodland Trek Of Life!