Malkoran was frowning at the dilapidated front window of the pub where he was supposed to meet his Wolves. The Unatoning Goose, it was called. A werewolf pub, Edward had assured him. Everyone inside would assume that they were a small pack of werewolf tourists.

Malkoran certainly would have no trouble posing as a tourist. He kept looking around him, eyes wide, occasionally gaping, as though he were some country bumpkin who'd never set foot in a city before.

And… Well, he had visited many grand cities in his lifetime, but…

Gods, everything was so different than he remembered. Was that bright red hunk of metal supposed to be some sort of automobile? Why were there empty beer bottles everywhere? Where were the cobblestones and the horse dung? Somewhere above him, rhythmic noise blasted out of a window. Malkoran had to assume that it was modern "music", since he'd heard bits of it during the drive from the airport. Hannibal had arranged for a chauffeur to wait for him at the arrival lobby. Thankfully, the fare had already been paid for. Malkoran didn't have any pound sterling on him, though Hannibal had provided him with some sort of card that supposedly allowed him to pay for a large array of things and services.

As for his journey from Tibet to England… That giant monster of an airplane had been large enough to accommodate several dozen people. And the security at the airport, people asking where he came from, why he was visiting... Thankfully, Hannibal had supplied him with a modern passport. According to the document, Malkoran's name was Adam Pierson, born September 5, 1964 in Cardiff, Wales.

Adam. Oh, the irony. Hannibal had certainly chosen the name on purpose. After all, Malkoran pre-dated any mention of Adam, the so-called "first man".

He stared at the pub's glowing red sign for several minutes. He dreaded what awaited him inside. The looks of disappointment, the unspoken criticism, the contempt.

You are still their Alpha. They cannot disrespect you, at least not to your face. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to walk inside that dingy building.

Eyes closed, Mal took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He repeated the meditation technique a dozen times, but felt not a bit calmer nor more confident. He would have to fake it, otherwise it would be a disaster. His Wolves could literally smell fear.

One step forward. His right foot moved hesitantly. Good. Another. The left followed just as shyly.

The door opened, and Mal realised that his eyes were still closed. He looked up to see Edward standing in the doorframe and filling it, effectively blocking Mal's view of the pub's interior. "Hey boss. We're ready when you are."

There was no turning back now.

The pub was quiet at this hour; it was barely 11 in the morning. There was only one patron other than the Wolves, and he was sitting at the bar, smoking a rolled-up cigarette. The bartender was idly polishing the counter, though the towel he was using seemed as dirty as the wooden surface. The interior stank of old tobacco, cheap ale and stale human sweat. Not a pleasant combination.

Malkoran avoided everyone's gaze as he walked toward the empty seat at the end of the grimy tables that his cubs had assembled in a corner of the room, near a large green table that had several holes in it. He held his head high, chin up, hands nonchalantly plunged in the pockets of his trousers, but his show of confidence was lost on his pack. His gait was too stiff to project anything but discomfort.

He wished he could discard his brown leather jacket as soon as he reached the chair – he was suffocating with apprehension – but he could feel sweat trickling down his back; if he removed the jacket, everyone would notice the wet stain on his plain grey t-shirt.

He lifted his eyes slowly and did a quick count: they were all here, except Damian and Grigori, as expected. The seat to Malkoran's right side was occupied by Ramesses, the one on the left by Hannibal; his two eldest. Edward sat across from Mal, at the other end of the tables. The others were seated haphazardly, as far as Malkoran could tell. To his right were Hunac, Miyamoto, Erik and Ivan, and to the left William, Attila, Hernán and Gilles.

They were all watching him expectantly. He had, after all, convened this meeting. It was expected of him to speak first, not to mention the fact that he was their Alpha, a fact of which Mal kept having to remind himself.

Despite his agitation, Malkoran took some time to study his cubs. There were a few that he hadn't seen in centuries, like Attila and Hunac. They hadn't changed much in appearance, of course, save for their modern haircuts and items of clothing – jeans and t-shirts, for most of them. Hannibal and William were the only ones wearing long-sleeved shirts, and Ramesses wore a formal tweed suit with a tie, like an old university professor.

Several Wolves coughed discreetly as the silence stretched, and Mal caught a few sneering half-smiles, quickly concealed behind a hand.

"Thank you all for meeting me here," Mal said quietly. "I know that many of you live quite a long distance from Albion, and I apologise for the inconvenience."

Not Albion, you senile fool. England. They call it England. Great Britain. Burn you, it was already called that long before you retired.

To Mal's knowledge, Edward was the only Wolf currently residing on British soil, but it made more sense to gather here, for Damian was still, likely as not, on the island.

"I hope…" Mal paused, too long, judging by their scowls and arched eyebrows. "I hope that you are all doing well." No one sniggered out loud, but once again, some of them had trouble keeping a straight face.

Malkoran sighed and turned toward Ramesses – his oldest friend, his most trustworthy advisor. "Have you explained… That is, do they know…" Gods, he was stumbling over his own words. To be fair, he hadn't spoken English in a long, long time, save the few sentences he had exchanged with Elle when she visited him in Tibet. He had expected to hear their native language, but she had apparently discarded it. Which was only sensible – nobody else but Mal would understand it, these days. It was so ancient, it didn't even have a name. Historians and linguists alike had either never encountered it or, possibly, had amalgamated it with some other dead language.

Ramesses saved him from utter embarrassment by divining the meaning behind the unfinished sentences. "I thought it better to leave it to you to debrief the situation, Alpha."

There were a few barely concealed scoffs at that, but Mal didn't try to pinpoint their origin. It was only fair. "Yes. Indeed. Thank you, Ramesses." He glanced at William and Hannibal. "And thank you. You stepped in when I most needed you. You did well."

"Did they?" Ivan wondered aloud. "Because we seem to be having a lot of 'situations' since you…decided to take a trip to the mountains. Alpha." He threw the title at the end of the sentence as an afterthought.

"First Goldeneyes, now Greyback…" Attila said. "Methinks we should have stopped making Wolves after Silverclaws."

"After Edward," Miyamoto corrected him.

"Oh, right." The Hun chuckled. "I keep forgetting about that one."

"I'm right here, mate," Edward said good-naturedly, waving from his seat.

"Please," Malkoran interceded. "There is no ground for incivility. It seems to me that you have heard what happened." Attila had mentioned Greyback. "What Damian did."

Only a few Wolves bothered to acquiesce. "Killed one of them bloodsucking ladies, is what we heard," Ivan said with a leer.

"He did," Malkoran confirmed gravely. "I hope that you understand just how dire the situation is."

"I'm rather surprised at how cordially the Bloodmother behaved when she demanded to know your whereabouts, Alpha," Hannibal said. "She was clearly upset, but she made no threats. May I ask what happened in Tibet? Why did she wish to talk to you personally, and why did you suddenly ask me to arrange for your return to civilisation?"

His expression was carefully guarded, but his tone suggested that he wasn't too happy about it. Hannibal was a born leader; he liked to be in charge. If Mal had allowed it, Hannibal would have named himself Alpha in his stead, presiding over the entire pack, without bothering with two superfluous intendants.

"We could have handled the issue ourselves, All-father," William concurred. Malkoran very nearly winced. Erik had come up with that alternative title some centuries ago, but the reference to Norse mythology reminded Mal too much of the demon who was responsible for his curse. "There is no need to trouble yourself-"

"On the contrary," Ramesses interrupted him. "I think it is vital for Malkoran to take part. This is a very unusual situation. Never has something so vile ever happened, not since I was transformed. What Grigori did pales in comparison to this horrendous crime. The Mother would be within her rights to demand Greyback's head." He nodded to Malkoran. "I assume that this is what we are here to discuss, Alpha."

"Within her rights? Are you out of your bloody mind?!" Ivan exclaimed, staring at Ramesses in shock. "We can't surrender one of our own to the leeches!" He turned to Mal. "I thought we were here to talk battle plans!"

"Aye," Attila said. "About time we rid the world of those pasty vermins. Greyback did us a favour, eliminating one of the most vicious of those bitches-"

Bitches? That was an old derogatory term, but Mal had never heard it spoken with such…casualness. He assumed that the word had somehow become a popular insult. "You will refrain from using that sort of language," he snapped. "Ramesses is correct. We are here to discuss Greyback's punishment, not to start an all-out war."

"Punishment?" Attila scoffed. "The cub didn't do anything wrong! Isn't it our destiny, our gods-given mission, to annihilate the vampires? We loathe them, and they return the sentiment. I'd feel a lot more comfortable knowing that we're the only immortals on this planet. I don't like sharing."

Attila didn't like anything except conquering. Malkoran had had to be quite firm to force the cub to give that up, after he was transformed. But "no more plundering" had been one of the conditions to become a Wolf, and Attila had deemed immortality a greater source of power than anything else he could achieve as a mere mortal warrior.

Malkoran shook his head. "Gods-given? You know our history, Attila. The gods were never involved in any part of it. Our supposed enmity with the Ancients is purely visceral; there's no logical reason for it. The demons made us this way. It's part of the curse." Attila snorted at the comment. Few of them considered it a curse.

"The lady Jeanne did not deserve to die. She was only protecting her cub," Ramesses added. "Greyback was warned repeatedly that he ought to be more discreet. In hindsight, his involvement with the dark wizard known as Voldemort should not have been permitted. I'm afraid that we were too lenient with the youngling, after what happened to his maker."

Malkoran had long debated the question of whether he wanted to know or not, but it seemed relevant to ask at this point. "What exactly happened to Grigori? What did he do?"

Hannibal had kept him vaguely informed over the past decades, but Mal hadn't paid much attention, hadn't requested details. He had fully trusted his lieutenants to handle delicate situations on his behalf. Mal knew that Grigori had been "disposed of", but in what manner, precisely? What had decided the temporary pack leaders to take such drastic measures?

His main reason for asking was not to debate their decision. He wanted to judge if the same punishment might be applied to Greyback – provided that Elle found it acceptable. Mal would rather not have to kill Greyback if it was not entirely necessary. He was looking for alternative solutions.

"What did he do?" Hernán scoffed, as though he couldn't quite believe how blatantly ignorant Mal was.

"My cub tried to trigger World War III, Alpha," Edward replied sheepishly. "He was advising both sides during the Cuban missile crisis. He would have unleashed nuclear hell if we hadn't stopped him."

Most of that explanation made no sense to Malkoran. Nuclear? He was not familiar with the word, but he assumed it was bad.

Wait a second.

"World War…Three?" he repeated slowly. "Was there another… I mean…" He had decided to leave after the Great War – a war on a scale larger than anything he had ever witnessed, involving multiple nations across the entire world and causing so much death and suffering in such a short period of time that Mal didn't know whether to be horrified or impressed. Or both.

In any case, it had convinced him that the mortals were a lost cause. He might as well retire and await humanity's final moments in peace. Hopefully he would die with this world. That was how he felt, back then.

Before Ellessin's sudden reappearance in his life.

"Whiptail, I thought you'd made regular reports to him," William chided his elder. "How does our Alpha not know about the Second World War?"

A Second World War. And yet… And yet somehow, the humans lived on. In fact, if his short time in public spaces these past few days was any indication, Malkoran would even say that they were thriving. They seemed more numerous than ever.

He had to admit that they were more resilient than he'd given them credit for. Though perhaps it was not exactly a good thing; they fought and fought, over and over again, and always they survived, but they never seemed to learn anything from their battles and wars. They just kept on fighting and surviving, never truly living.

Focus. You can catch up on recent history and philosophise later.

"Why would Grigori do something like that?" he asked eventually.

Ivan shrugged. "Who knows? The fellow was never quite right in the head. He probably just wanted to destroy the mortals and have this stupid rock all to himself, to share only with the cockroaches."

Mal had only met Grigori once, a few weeks after the Russian had been turned. He'd appeared sane enough. He exuded charisma. By then, however, the world was plunged into war (the First War, apparently) and Malkoran was already considering leaving it all behind. He hadn't heeded the warning signs.

"I see," Malkoran said, though he didn't, not quite. "What did you do to him, then?"

"I'd like to know that, too," Edward grumbled.

The others exchanged uncomfortable glances. Even Hannibal and William appeared ill at ease. It was eventually Ramesses who answered. "In truth," the former pharaoh began hesitantly, "I am not sure, Alpha. Fenrir made him go away." The tables trembled as he spoke, rattling their glasses, and several lanterns flickered in the pub. Um, lamps? Lightbulbs? Gods, there was electricity everywhere. "He promised that no harm would come to Grigori. That he wouldn't kill him. Just as you requested, Alpha."

Malkoran frowned in confusion, still half-distracted by modern commodities. "Fenrir?" He repeated the name with great reluctance, but nothing happened this time. "You mean Greyback? I don't-"

Ramesses looked away guiltily. Oh, bugger. No, they couldn't have. They couldn't be foolish enough to…no, crazy enough to…

Especially wise, rational Ramesses… Cunning Hannibal, prudent William… His finest cubs, and yet they had… "You summoned Him? You summoned Him intentionally?" Malkoran stammered, his voice rising with incredulity. "I can't believe…" He trailed off. He didn't even know what to say.

"You said not to kill him, so we couldn't request a favour from the Ancients, as we'd planned to do originally," Hannibal pointed out. He sounded uncharacteristically defensive.

He was talking about execution. So that had been their initial course of action: to simply have Grigori executed by Ellessin, or one of her people. If Ramesses had not decided to travel all the way to Tibet to inform Malkoran of the situation and ask for his input, Grigori would be dead. They were just as bad as the mortals, if not worse.

"We had to improvise, Alpha," William added. "What else were we supposed to do? You gave us an order, but no specific instructions."

Malkoran stared at him and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it quickly, trying to think. Had it been his decision to make, Mal wouldn't even have considered involving the demon. It wouldn't have occurred to him at all. Whenever possible, he did his best to forget that the demon existed.

And yet William's question was legitimate. What else could they do, under the circumstances? Without Mal's guidance, they had opted for the solution they deemed fittest.

If Mal had paid more attention to Ramesses when he'd visited and had actually bothered to deal with the problem himself… Well, it was too late now. Mal would simply add it to his mounting pile of regrets and contemplate it whenever sleep eluded him.

"So he's really alive?" Edward spoke into the silence.

William briefly turned his attention toward him. "We…trust that he is. Wherever he may be."

"You can't believe anything the demon told you," Malkoran said, his jaw clenched. "What did He say exactly? And what did He demand in exchange for this…service?"

"Nothing," William replied hastily. Malkoran could tell that he was lying. The Conqueror was lying to his Alpha's face.

Hannibal shot the cub a warning look. "Fenrir said…" He gasped softly when his glass exploded in front of him, spilling the remains of his stout. He quickly dabbed himself with a silky handkerchief. It appeared to be embroidered with his initials.

"He said that he was happy to oblige but that we, I quote, 'would pay for it eventually'," Ramesses finished for him.

"That sounds more like an ominous threat than a promise to receive an invoice sometime in the future," Mal remarked.

Gods, what had they done? Never, ever involve demons in mortal or immortal affairs. That was practically Malkoran's only rule as their Alpha. Well, that and 'thou shalt not kill thy distant bloodthirsty relatives'.

They had managed to break both rules in Malkoran's absence.

Clearly, Ivan and Attila had a point: Mal should either delegate better, or be a proper Alpha.

He itched to bury his head in his arms in sheer frustration but, if he allowed himself even a second of weakness, his Wolves would eat him alive. Perhaps literally so.

What a pickle.

There was one thing Mal knew for certain: Greyback may have done a terrible thing, but this form of punishment was out of the question. They would have to come up with something else. "Does anyone have any idea where Greyback is now?" he asked tiredly. "Any clue at all?"

Ivan narrowed his eyes at him. "If we did, what would you do? Rat him out to the corpses?"

"Our cub, our problem," Attila concurred. "Even if I agreed with you on the fact that he's committed any crime, Alpha, and I do not, what you're implying is wrong. We can't surrender him to the Bloodmother. You know she'll kill him."

"And you don't want that, do you, boss?" Ivan added shrewdly. "You said not to kill Grigori, whatever he may have done, so why should we treat Greyback any differently? He's still one of ours."

"Ellessin has sworn to me that no harm would come to him," Malkoran explained. Too late, he realised he shouldn't have said that.

Really, it should have been obvious.

"She's got him wrapped around her little finger, uh?" Hunac said in a low voice, though not quite low enough. Mal was almost certain that the regular werewolf who served as bartender had heard him.

"We don't take no order from no woman," Gilles muttered in that thick accent of his. Hernán elbowed him in the ribs, hard enough that his progeny spilled some ale on the table.

"She swore, eh?" Ivan repeated with a smirk. "Well that's just peachy then. Let's forget about the past millennia of ambient loathing and distrust and assume that the lady Ellessin only wants what's best for us regardless of her thirst for revenge."

Malkoran looked around the tables. Ramesses appeared sympathetic, but Mal could read the disapproval in Hannibal's hard eyes. William kept glancing at his watch as though he had more important things to do, better places to be. The others reeked of disdain and disgust at Mal's incompetence. Edward was glaring at his mug of ale like it had insulted him. Only Miyamoto looked composed. His face was carefully blank, his scent neutral.

The fact that several of them were looking Mal dead in the eyes was in itself disturbing. They were all highly dominant – more so than any mortal werewolf – but Malkoran was still their Alpha, curse them. They ought to show proper deference, or fake it at the very least. It was like they were looking for a fight, like they were hoping for a chance to finally take Mal down and replace him with someone they deemed strong and worthy of solo leadership.

Of course, they couldn't kill him, but if they humiliated him in a fight, stepping down would be the smartest choice. No one would take him seriously after that.

How Ellessin would mock him if she could see him now. You're pathetic. Weak.

Mal had to do something. Be proactive. Remind them of who you are.

He stood and leaned forward, placing his palms on the beer-soaked table where Hannibal's glass had shattered a moment ago. A few shards pierced his skin, but he paid them no attention. He fixed Ivan, who was still wearing that unpleasant smile of his. The man did not flinch. "Do you wish to formally challenge me to a duel, cub?" Malkoran demanded, his voice low but harsh.

Ivan blinked, his smile melting away, and his immediate neighbours shifted nervously, their eyes reflexively seeking the nearest inanimate object. "I…"

Mal ignored him and faced Attila instead. "How about you?" The Hun faltered, dropping his gaze. Everyone else took a sudden interest in the cracks and stains of their respective table. The only sound in the pub was the muted commentary of the sport game displayed on a mysterious glowing box at the bar. Mal had one such device in his hotel room, but no idea what purpose it served.

He straightened up and casually brushed off the small pieces of glass embedded in his palms. "I have failed you. I am not denying that. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was deluding myself. You need me. You are nothing without me. You are like helpless children playing at being adults, mimicking common sense and wisdom as though the very concept was something out of the imaginary. I blame myself for the troubles that have arisen, but that is not, and never will be, an excuse for poor behaviour on your part. You will give me the respect that is my due as your Elder. I made you. Without me, you are nothing," he said again.

No one spoke. No one dared.

"You will all take a sabbatical from whatever activities you have going on," he went on. "I want each and every one of you on the lookout for Damian. If you spot him, do not engage. Report to me directly. Do not approach the Ancients under any circumstances unless I command you to do so. Until the situation is resolved in a way I see fit, in agreement with Lady Ellessin, you will not relent in your hunt for Damian. If you so much as contemplate the idea of disobeying me, deserting, or alerting Damian, you will envy Grigori's fate."

Malkoran could smell their fear – a welcome addition to the collective stink of the place.

"Edward, you will continue to act as my intermediary with the Ancients." Ellessin refused to see Mal in person until Greyback was brought to her in chains. "Obey the Bloodmother as you would myself." Once again, Mal surveyed his assembled cubs. "Whether you like it or not, the vampires are not our enemies." He let out a mirthless chuckle. "You would have us at war against them. You poor dim-witted souls. They would eat us all for breakfast. Ellessin alone would tear through our ranks like a tornado before you even had time to transform."

"We're stronger than any of those-" Attila cut off abruptly, slumping in his chair. "Apologies, Alpha. I did not mean to speak out of turn," he mumbled.

Malkoran allowed himself a satisfied twist of the lips. They would undoubtedly require more disciplining before this sad affair was resolved but, for now at least, they were subdued. "Strength is not everything, cub. Ellessin is quicker than lightning and sly as a fox. She is a mother protecting her children. After what happened to Jeanne, believe me, you do not stand a chance against her."

As he made his way back to his hotel room, leaving his Wolves to talk behind his back if they dared, Malkoran replayed his own words in his head. Ellessin has sworn to me that no harm would come to him.

No wonder his cubs had laughed it off. It didn't make any sense. Why did she want Damian alive? Mal had asked himself that question many times since he'd come down the mountains. Edward had not been able to provide a satisfying answer, though Mal suspected that he knew more than he let on.

As far as Mal could guess, Ellessin needed Damian, for some obscure reason. She wouldn't have promised not to hurt him if she intended to have him executed as soon as Mal brought him in. She was a lot of things, his Elle, but her word was her bond.

Malkoran groaned internally. Most likely, she was simply twisting the meaning behind her apparently straightforward promise. In other words, she was manipulating him into doing her bidding. But why? After all this time, why? She had sought him out, had practically begged for his assistance. She had been relatively polite. She hadn't even tried to kill him, not once.

She must be quite desperate.

Mal wished he knew more. He wished Elle would trust him and confide in him, so that he could help her, comfort her. Make her his again, as it should be.

She was his soulmate. She was his one and only. Without her, he was nothing. He couldn't be a proper leader until he was whole again. They couldn't hope to unite Wolves and Ancients until Elle and he were together. Until she forgave him.

Well, they were immortal. Mal had always known that it would take time, but they would be reunited.

It had been foretold.

Aeons ago...

After the debacle he had caused and Ellessin's consequent departure, Malkoran had wandered the world aimlessly for many a full moon, and had eventually found himself at the Seer's hut once again.

He had half-expected her to have died a long time ago, but he wondered if perhaps their sacrifice, committed at her suggestion, had earned her a few extra years. Demon-worshipper indeed. Her appearance had not altered in the interval since their first encounter, although her great-granddaughter was now a hunched old woman.

"And here he comes again, Malkoran the Wanderer," the Seer greeted him slyly.

"I would kill you," Mal murmured, "but I fear you would feel more at home in the place you are destined to reach."

"Oh, no such place awaits me, Cursed One. The gods of the underworld and I have an...arrangement. I paid the price. I keep paying it. My first born son...then all the ones who came after him. This one" - the bed-ridden crone indicated her younger kin - "is but a husk. Her soul was traded before she took her first breath. Her own great-grandchildren will be next."

"Is it worth the cost?" Malkoran asked her softly.

She made a sound between a groan and a snort. "Oh no, not quite. Immortality is a curse, as you will soon come to realise, if you have not already. But there is no coming back from what you have done, Betrayer. We made our bed, as they say."

Mal wasn't familiar with the phrase, but the Seer saw into the future, as her…title indicated. Perhaps it had not yet been invented.

He wasn't certain what had brought him here. He had no words for the one who had deceived them and ruined their lives. As he turned to depart, however, the hag called after him.

"One shall come to bring you together again, the Wolf and the Undead One. She will unite you." The Seer smiled unpleasantly. "Despair not, Malkoran Fenrirson, for brighter days are ahead."

"How far ahead?" he demanded, shuddering at the use of His name. "Who shall come?"

"A young girl, from a land that has yet to be named, in an age yet to come."

"An age yet to come? When?" Mal repeated forcefully. "Enough with the riddles, beldam!"

The Seer snorted contemptuously. "You will lead a wretched, pathetic existence, Cursed One, until this one reunites you with the woman who holds your heart. But many a spring shall pass until that day, more than even I can foresee."

Malkoran had heard enough. Lies, deceit, empty promises: it was all the Seer would give him.

Her malicious cackle followed him out of the hut, an echo reminiscent of a bygone age.