nine: julie
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As is tradition, the Alpha presents the ashes of her Pack's victory to the Chief.
Julie's lost count of how many times she has done this now — how many times she has been forced to stand before the Chief and her Council after every kill so they can honour this tradition. And yet her mother's eyes shine with pride as if it's the very first time all over again.
Every time this happens, every time her mom looks at her in this way, Julie always feels like she's fifteen again and has just announced that she's accepted her birthright. Always imagines what it would have been like if she chose differently.
Bonnie pulls the leather thong from her neck — the proof of Yaha Uta's kill which they have kept safe for hundreds of years. She holds it fiercely, victoriously. As if this kill belongs to the Council, too. As if the Pack are theirs to command.
One day — one day, they will learn that an Alpha does not submit.
Now, her wolf howls.
Not yet, Julie whispers back. Not yet.
The Council agree that they will keep a handful of ashes to warn them if the Cold Ones try to put themselves back together, and Julie has to ignore her wolf as they then give the order for the Pack to spread the rest far and wide, to the far corners of the world and into its oceans.
Her wolf pushes against her bones, but she leashes it.
(Not yet. Not yet.)
Julie nods to her Elders, her mother, and she promises that she and her Pack will do as they say. And they smile back at her, appeased, because they know — they know what she is capable of. What power she holds in her hands. But they'd rather believe that they hold the reins in this, that she and her Pack will always bow down to them. That belief — it's probably the only thing that allows them to rest easy at night.
They wouldn't shut their eyes again if they'd seen what Julie has seen. If they'd heard how the two red-eyes had screamed and begged for their lives towards the end, they would be horrified.
Oh, the things she could tell them. She could tell them that vampires taste like rotten fruit, their venom-blood like bleach. She could tell them that their snarls sound like rolling thunder, their screams like fingernails on a chalkboard. She could tell them how her Pack hurled and gagged for hours after tearing the creatures into pieces with nothing but teeth and claws.
But she doesn't. Instead she holds her tongue, and she lets them believe what they will.
Because one day — one day, they will learn.
(Not yet.)
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ten: julie
.
After the ashes of the bloodsuckers are carried on the wind, Emma leaves again.
The Pack expect it this time, and so there's less fanfare, less upset amongst them, and Julie's wolves bounce back from the loss quicker than normal. But still Julie spends a month feeling disorientated from being split in several different directions. Still, she quietly hurts.
Quietly — because she will never tell them how it feels.
Julie learned too late that being an Alpha takes everything. Requires everything, every single ounce of magic running through her veins, because she cannot give or be anything less than her wolves need and deserve.
Her wolves. Not Sam's. Not the Council's. Not Bonnie's.
It is for her wolves that Julie hands over everything she has. And then they leave her anyway.
She knows why. She understands, she does. She would leave too, if she were able — but she can't. The day she's able to stop phasing is the day that there are no more wolves to lead and no more vampires to kill.
There will always be vampires. And that means there will always be wolves.
She's the only one who ever seems to remember that part.