Chapter 99: Terrible contract and dinner
Chapter 99
Cameron
The new leader steps forward, tidy in his dirt—too clean for the place, hair slicked back, boots that haven’t known real mud. He bows. It’s smart. It’s also useless.
"We have to reevaluate the deal between our two sides," I inform him.
"It’s written in contract, it just can’t be—" he starts. I cut him off with a look.
"I wasn’t asking." I say. The words are flat; they land like a dropped stone.
"Bring me the contract." I add.
A scruffy merc digs through a cracked leather satchel and produces a stack of yellowed pages tied with twine. Using such paper? What era are we in?
I sit on the nearest log as the camp quiets into an uncomfortable hush while I read.
The more I scan the clauses the darker my mood grows. It’s not just the numbers; it’s the language. "Alternative compensation," "contingent arrangements," "reasonable discretion"—all weasel words designed to bend obligation into appetite. A glaring clause lets them accept non-monetary payment when funds run dry.
Twenty thousand dollars down payment. One thousand a day thereafter. Food, lodging, and "ancillary costs" covered by the pack. They’ve been here almost a year. These fucking bastards.
Their "protection" has been worth a quarter million on paper already, if the figures are to be believed. And that’s the tame part; the real terror is the loophole that hands them the right to demand other forms of payment if coin dries up.
Of all contracts I’ve ever, seen this is the most ridiculous, I tear it into pieces.
I drop the torn paper and watch it flutter into the wind like a surrendered flag. Around us the camp freezes,men mid-swipe at a bone, a dog-eared ledger left open on a crate everyone waiting to see what comes next.
"This is now null and void," I announce, and I don’t bother to sound theatrical.
The new leader steps forward, bravado plastered across his face like cheap makeup. "Contracts are contracts, Alpha. The papers were signed—"
"Yes , by the old alpha and your now-dead leader," I cut in, the emphasis on dead making his smile falter.
"Still, you can’t just—" he begins, scrambling for footing.
"I wasn’t asking." I don’t give him another chance.
"You were hired for protection. Not to traffic our women. Not to plunder our meagre stores. Not to turn our ruin into your profit center." My voice is low, controlled; the camp tightens around it.
"Contracts are tools. I can also draft a tool that cuts your hand off."
For a second I want to smash something, someone—Alric, the ledger, the whole idea that a page can be twisted into a warrant for predators. I breathe instead. Clear, steady. Strategic.
"Before we draft another agreement," I continue, "I want to see what you do. Tonight you hunt the vampires. I will come with you and evaluate whether there is any value in negotiating further." I fold my hands in my lap and let the sentence land.
"You can’t," the new leader says, as if the notion of a stranger eyeballing their work is an outrage.
"Then leave." The word drops like a stone.
Silence swells; it feels like waiting for a storm. The mercs shuffle, exchange looks. Some are angry, some suddenly very practical in their fear.
"I will see you tonight," I add, standing. The words are simple, final. I don’t linger. If I stay, I might do something I regret, like kill another wolf.
*
I hang back, boots sinking lightly into the mulch of the forest floor. My stride is measured, controlled—quiet enough that they keep glancing over their shoulders as if unsure whether I’m following or stalking them.
The mercenaries move with surprising coordination. A few in wolf form melt into the underbrush, ears pricked, shoulders low, their pelts ghosting through the darkness. Others stay in human form, knives drawn, crossbows slung, sniffing at the wind with noses that twitch like hounds.
They prowl the forest like they know it. I’ll give them that.
But knowing a forest is one thing. Keeping a pack alive is another.
Three hours now. My patience thins like wire ready to snap. Not a trace of a vampire, not even a hint of movement save for the flutter of night birds and the scuttle of smaller beasts.
I stop, leaning against a tree, letting the cool bark press into my spine. The mercenaries fan out, whispering signals, shifting positions, looking for tracks I can’t see.
And yet—nothing.
My jaw clenches. This is their "work"? Prowling, growling, and wasting hours on shadows?
How absolutely unnecessary.
They split up, fanning into the trees, and I break off too. My patience is gone. The scent of damp earth, the endless whisper of leaves—none of it helps.
I’d rather be with my mate.
With her.
In her.
Than whatever this is.
I move deeper into the woods, boots soft on the mulch, the moonlight cutting long pale bars across the forest floor. I glance back over my shoulder and realize—ha.
I’m alone.
Not a sound of them. No yellow eyes. No scent-trails. Nothing.
I slow, drawing in a deep breath through my nose, ears straining. Father-in-law’s training rises in my mind: If you lose the pack, listen for them before you call. Don’t give your position away.
So I listen.
At first, only silence. Then a faint shift. Not from the direction they went. From behind me.
The hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.
I pivot slowly, my boots whispering in the leaf litter. The trees stand like pillars, dark and unmoving. My pulse ticks harder.
Another sound. Low. Wet. Almost like a growl but wrong too thin, too reedy, like a hiss dragged through broken glass.
I scan the shadows, crouch, tilt my head to catch it again.
And then something moves.
A blur drops from above, too fast, too quiet, nothing but a streak of pale claws and black eyes. It lands low, skittering across the dirt like a spider, its limbs jointed wrong, its jaw unhinged in a hiss that smells like rot and iron.
It leaps straight at me.
I dodge.
Fast—too fast. The air tears around its claws, a blur that would’ve gutted me if I’d hesitated a heartbeat longer.
I dodge again. My body moves on instinct now, wolf and man aligned for once, keeping me alive.
The stench hits me harder than the claws did—rancid, like spoiled meat left too long in the sun, sour blood curdled with rot. My stomach twists, my nose burns.
It straightens slowly, unfolding from the crouch of its landing.
And that’s when I finally get a good look.
A man, or what was a man. His skin is stretched tight, veins black like ink under parchment. His eyes glow red, pupil-less, burning coals in a ruined face. Fangs protrude past his lips, longer than they should be, dripping thick with saliva that steams when it hits the dirt.
His chest rises and falls too quickly, like something wearing a body it doesn’t know how to control. Every movement is jerky, twitching, unnerving.
I suppose this is what they call a vampire. Media lied.
And it’s looking at me like I’m dinner.
I thought werewolf blood was supposed to be poison to them.
It lunges again, faster than I expect, a blur of claws and hunger. My claws extend on instinct, scraping against my palms as I dodge sideways, boots digging into the dirt. It whips past me, a hiss tearing from its throat.
I pivot just in time for its second strike. It’s relentless, moving like a nightmare given muscle. My shoulder narrowly escapes a swipe that would’ve opened me from collarbone to hip.
The wolf in me rises, cold and sharp. I don’t plan the movement—my body does it for me. When it lunges a third time, I step in, not back, claws slicing across its throat. The resistance is nothing. Its head separates like paper under a blade.
I freeze.
How... weak?
The body crumples at my feet. The head rolls once, twice, eyes still glowing faintly even as the light dims.
I step closer, curiosity prickling under the adrenaline. My claws drip black-red. I’ve never fought one of these things before. All the stories said they were demons impossible to kill, apex predators.
Am I strong or was this one weak?
A sound breaks my focus.
Soft at first, then growing—a shuffle, a hiss, the click of claws on stone. I lift my head. Shadows shift between the trees. More red eyes bloom in the dark like coals flaring to life. Ten. Fifteen. Maybe more.
They’re surrounding me.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, claws flexing. "Of course," I mutter.
"It’s gonna be a long night."
The first one darts forward, and I meet it halfway, slamming my palm into its sternum and twisting to throw it into another. Two more rush from my blind side; I duck low and sweep my claws, tearing at ankles.
They screech, stumbling over each other.
Another lunges, jaw unhinged too wide. I catch it by the throat, pivot, and slam it back-first into a tree. Wood cracks. Something in its spine does too.
They just keep coming.
