Claimed by the Pack

I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying anything. I let her continue.

“Broderick has more obscure origins. He’s ex-military, we know that much. Norwegian special forces or something. And he was made willingly…” Xiomara paused to rub the bridge of her nose. “Which explains why he’s always so pissed off,” she went on. “Most of his anger is internal. Directed at himself.”

I wanted to scream. I couldn’t believe I’d been dragged across the ocean for this nonsense.

“Is this some sort of fucked up test?” I asked. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you need to know what you’re dealing with,” Xiomara said sternly. “Their pack’s gone lawless. They could easily be dangerous, and so you need to treat them—”

“Pack? What pack?” I practically yelled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I’d had enough of being out of the loop, really. Whatever she believed or didn’t believe, I just wanted to know what was going on.

“Why even humor these people? You’re feeding into their fantasy! You’re only making things worse. In fact, you—”

Xiomara threw me a hard look — one she’d delivered to me only once before. It very carefully told me there was a line. A line I was about to cross… if I hadn’t already.

“Ms. Weston,” she snapped coldly, “rein it in.”

Somehow I did. It wasn’t easy though, not this time. Not after London. Not after Alex.

“Now listen to me,” she went on, her voice intentionally slow and grating. “I want you to think very hard about something for a moment.”

A lecture was the last thing I needed right now. But whatever was coming, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

“Do you remember Savannah?”

All the blood in my veins turned to ice. It happened quickly, almost instantly. There was no stopping it.

“Do I need to remind you of what you saw there, Ms. Weston?”

I knew exactly what I saw there. And together, we’d agreed not to talk about it again. Ever.

Apparently Xiomara was now breaking that agreement. Or more likely, she’d claim that I was the one who screwed things up by stepping over the line.

“Yes,” was all I said. “I remember.”

“Very good.”

She studied me for a moment, letting the magnitude of what just happened sink in. The silence was a hundred miles beyond uncomfortable. I didn’t dare break it though.

“And when I showed you the Estonian footage,” Xiomara went on, “do you remember your reaction?”

I did, of course. Sixty-two seconds worth of hi-resolution footage of a fully-interactive, anthropomorphic apparition. One that actually talked to another member of the Order, answering questions. One that asked its own questions too, before finally dissipating into a thick, web-like mist.

It wasn’t something you ever forgot, really.

“Yes,” I said. “I remember my reaction.”

“You were in awe,” said Xiomara, “because you didn’t think such a thing was possible. And then you saw it. You witnessed it with your own two eyes, and any preconceived notions you might’ve had about the afterlife were shattered.”

I let my shoulders slump. I finally saw what she was getting at.

“You’ve seen poltergeists firsthand,” she went on. “You’ve vetted an actual warlock in Bridgeport Connecticut!” She looked angry again. It wasn’t a good anger. “What happened, did you suddenly forget these things?”

Though the question was rhetoric, the old woman leaned into the screen, waiting on an answer. I shook my head no.

“You move objects with your mind, Serena. You move them with such authority and power that half the Hallowed Order was afraid to even admit you!”